Hill

Once more for Mon Cheri, her famous psyche massage therapist – split
I was pointing out – what’s the point of women as no use retarded females
Now I’m on a road’s hill, waiting with bloodless legs, but not for this new woman wearing Halloween, a face-presser on car windows, a stranger toil
I won’t embrace her, but loosen up the handbrake and run her over, a living fossil from Kaiser Wilhelm’s Institute for the Unloved
The real two reconvened, and I embraced my headcase X, my ‘She’, she who took her oval pill to give me back recovery and spit
My cells divided

 

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poem, poetry, prose, poet, creative writing, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s