I COULD GO ON WRINGING
Well, there’s no singing, that would be murder!
I mean hand, head, and heart—of these wrought.
Over and over, squeezing, twisting…getting out damned art, ever hunger, indigo blood.
Everything’s stained, sometimes pretty, but mostly pretty late and pretty lame.
You know it too, we’ve left it unsaid, so to not speak—just hoping—DIE.
In whispers, I know it, poems, lyrics, short and long story, all missing their periods
but they were my