Sunday, May 9, 2010


I’m too serious of a lier

to be taken seriously.

I don’t understand,

and that’s a confession.

My ideas are almost

almost always

about love.

Burn your tongue,

you don’t even know what that means.

Child, she wishes under her breath

to a portrait.

She sees someone unfamiliar;

A catapulted story

sent over a bridge that’s

loosing it’s sacred foundations.

I dream about burnt nun’s

resulted from a war.

I am identifying bodies.

They are all so small

and still dressed in ashy nightgowns.

The smell is repulsive.

And the sight is


In all it’s disgusting truth.

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