The Décor

Sexist barbs against 
wooden breasts, street-smart. 
I am something not, I am. A wall 
of tears. Liquid nicotine, I will not declare 
myself, creating a poem in different ways. 

Waywarding, protégé digs the gullies- 
becoming unfaithful to himself. The 
hope, will it be extinguished? The 
tall mud slide, a devastating statement 
burying you, me, everyone. 

A black beetle, collecting carcasses, 
to feed the young. It is on the rise, 
green sea. I cannot see myself bleed, 
by the grasshoppers. It is like 
committing suicide solo.