Half Past The Hour of What Could Have Been

 

The retched disembodiment

that pours down the back of my throat

like pride on fire

and fuels my uncomfortable sobriety

my flesh of unwanted disdain

my bottle of broken English

that I accidentally knock over in a sarcastic arm gesture

trying to explain my fury

in molten words of collision

in the appetite of virtue

The nicotine tasting soft

In an hour of rhyme

The cigarette grins luminously

Before frowning upon my vengeance

My running six cylinders of open abuse

My gentrification of love

Stabbing at me again & again

As if I suspire the wound

The demons of persuasion

saltlick the lusting laceration

into a species

unnoticeable

to my being of rapture

my immortality haunted

by the thirst of a predator

next to me at the bar

with eyes full of jazz

swollen with sulfur

underneath a night

stale with want

and an empty glass

dying for recognition

from an array of solitude

to be misled & unforgiven

It could have been tragic

It could have been….

Reviews

[Annabella]

This is beautifully written.