the dust looked like veils on the curtains (Draft).

White breaths
he keeps a barrel in the den
of that imaginative way he
would kill his past; valueless

mayhem, and polemical apathy
throw money at it
throw money at it

dragging him out, the sun
molests him, summer coos
his brain-mist, and slip of
Italian leaves his lips
while he sleeps

his whispers feed the room.
He brushes the chintz blanket
with feces. Syllables liquefied
the back of throat way we all die
and admit we don’t.

I’ll inherit in my body,
his cruelty, since I don’t
forget; he is, by any stretch,
now a dead thing.

Vodka nearly cedared my lips,
as you are compost, bearing
deserted verbiage I’ll never
know if I would forgive; swims of blood,
legacies of trees now lie in me,
and I didn’t want it to.

lying parallel and still
shouting French, though
no inch surrenders your body. We rake dirt over you.
Shadows imperceptible, the house dreams of
an identical man, still pulsing.

your self-portrait
a Pharaoh performance,
one that would never die,
and where he once breathed
the dust looked like veils
on the curtains.

© 2022 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.

6 thoughts on “the dust looked like veils on the curtains (Draft).”

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