Week Thirty-Five.
What are you going to do about it?
_ _ _
Blood from the arm, from milk from the neck
The dharma's introduction, so I come correct
Apply suction, pressure, the tourniquet twist
For one lesson: the dharma don't exist--
1 measure
swords in my lips, rose-hips in my tea,
doe-eyed killer with the 'do-re-mi'
so cipher: slower than sunset, but golden
bluer than twelve-bar, nightfall unfolding
y'all poets get dropped into starlight for folly
lullabyed and good-night, another body
spotless-- nothing but the time on my hands
blood on my cloth turn to water and run away in the sands
carried away on the winds with wicked words
my rhymesayers, wayfarers and traveling birds
said gimmie shelter, just a fortnight then I can kick it
I said I'd leave the porchlight on, but no commitment
cause many wing-ed things navigate by the moon
and I have duplicated carelessly their wounds
tongues--
a dutiful son, my empty arts and arcanum
are cast by the wayside, collapse through the vaccuum
masked by the bassline, keep it like a heirloom
pass through space-time just to find your perfume
Submitted August 31, 2019 at 03:31AM by PaladinBen https://ift.tt/2zxKun4
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