crouched in thought. hands clicking. . .
cheek resting on my knee, movements to soothe
buried but not burdened.
the comforts are few an oh so quiet
smooth against the night whale
attached bare-knuckles . . .
zaire rocks the light if you can stand it.
pulling out your, “iIiee’s”
Pearlized-coating your tongue, your stories.
an where is Able?(truth?)
walk softly, limp an lean.
like the daughter of Herodias i beckon. head over shoulder coolly in blood tongue hiss,
using a voice that isn’t mine . . .
for what do i ask?
no, not his head.
his hands in a box, on a platter – –
to be delivered by Lavinia herself, (who is biting what’s left of her tongue)
offering this gift from between her own mutilated stumps.
because you are a deity
an quite simply;
i’ve been meaning to start on my collection- –
This is the gospel according to Cain, forever an ever . . .