Drilling.

The drill outside is his

Ugly thunder, a thread in the chores

Of good, hard mouthfuls.

Earnt like stickers, 

Fought like war, 

This is one blind f**k to my

Floated gaze and her cradled fumes.

Slyly, decadantly, they

Cry between the lines and fall

Through cold-blooded prisms.

The day is bread

But its bladed song shall forever send 

Apart one world and the next

To windows high, our seats of pain

In the barren lulling.

Teabags are buried, matches scattered

And lovers scurry by unknown

Like bandaged wounds.