Monday, June 22, 2015

if black magic stung me in the head,
plenty of room for roses- that
which stinks. that lighthearted fragrance does not

sway me. i choose not to swoon.
there's nothing to mix with. i am starving, you know-
starving as a starving child in africa.

it is time for supper. supper
is going to get cold. all this hard work

must be appreciated. if not, give me that knife
to give to that throat.