Where It Isn't Even Tuesday

Colors lace through morning's

Portugal hush,

Bruises burn my eyes deficiently  

Buddha passion overriding,

The sun seems a youthful betrayal

Growing cautiously near

Lowering remorse and utterly terrified

This day discovers me

The unusual acrobatic sloth.

 

Sheets untangle , peeling back last night’s assassination

Hungarian caustic song howling out  from some mezzanine castration

The sound shatters my tiny pin hole

Growling up the sill, bleeding inescapable terror  

The belly of the whale revives

 

Trifles are still taunting my horrid memory

But I try the handle anyway;

Was I there?

Was I dreaming?

Was I lost in some hypnotic voodoo rage…

Or simply

Making love to my pulse of jelly

A pawn and pilled condition?

 

Morning fills up the colors of room

These the last freedoms I recall,

I turn to the knife and pry,

No shame

Just warmth and thick reality

All of it lapping across her last,

A lowering heartbeat screams as

I hear that name I have heard, so many times before

Covered in unconditional and

The majestic trick of murder ...Where it isn’t even Tuesday