the golden age of grotesque

by suicidallyanonymous

walk in the park.
I am a greedy flower,
craving drops
of self-entitlement
and hot sex
to make me pure;

to forget:
melodies so repetitive,
my veins will boil,
and then I’ll die
-a kite, desperate
for wind
in a flatlined sky.

Steal their arteries
and warm them
with diamond pupils
-bone dry and murky
with decay.

Their roots quaked
beneath cataclysmic emotions
of a starved earth.

I am lethargy
and icicle tears,
one word sentences
and bad English.

He is a square knot
on my parched tongue.

desire lines.
Sunsets kissed your palms
in the tattered womb
of frigid winter,
but welcomed you
in summer;
you grew like weeds.

Truth: blindfolded broken glass
coerced to be your lucky stars.

the sun was high (so was I).
I become moldy
thinking of you.
You crawled
through my veins
when you ripped grey
from my sky.

The sun got wise,
hooking its fingers
into my mouth
to let my teeth

He asphyxiates
my self-loathing,
scooping my heart
from my throat.

One Comment to “the golden age of grotesque”

  1. I thoroughly enjoyed this…not that I can say I understood it. Does it really matter?

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