Insecticide #6

Silken scabs on my breasts,
on your lips,

A heretical approach to madness.

Your astrological conundrums,
and my arcane prayers;
says enough, I can’t go on like this.
Something must
give
way.

Border lines headlines; news.

a syphilitic sore.
How my heart beats
once more,

And in the black hole
of my anticipation of your death,
(for you are much older than I)
taxes are broken;
bones splinter; and ceilings crash,
I dare to dream of Heaven.

And in my flight,
I’m stepping on the bones
of my accusers.

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