Fort

 

They are making bets on your seizures
Your blind eyed souls
Your chances to win the lottery
Your numbness
Your stupidity

But the shade on your face keeps getting’ softer
and the kissing
is always without the tongue

only oblivion puts you on

you always get naked underneath the blankets
you go straight to the point
but the travel is the point
also

I prefer to see you standing
room half lit on fire
with your sweet tits like chocolate Eastern eggs
trembling
your rounded hips
and that tender edge between your legs
with spicy little hair all around
…
but you are way too worried
about the price of oil
the hunting season
and the weight of the bread
and the brakes
to notice

the miserere morning news
the death valley
the long gone loves
the father of your only child
the jealousy

all
around
me

like a flock of religious zealots
dancing away their
constant
egocentric
fucking
sins