The gangrene consumed me.
And I hated every minute of it.
Making the best, of what’s making me less, isn’t easy...

I’ve been cultivated and cropped, caked and topped,
waiting for the breeze and waters to lick me off.
But the collection never comes and my perplexions run numb,
while I examine my gangrene in a tub.

Colored and contraire, I wear my wear,
from the carpet I came from clung with despair.
With my insides hirsute with hurt, and eyes everywhere,
I run amuck with what my outsides bare.

[Genetically presided, and innumerably done,
the hurt and the hare -- they come as one.]

Like a spider, spewing a web,
crawling ever closer, to usurp my ebb.
And in the dusk, when the evening is dead,
it plays indelibly plastered, onto the forefront of my head:
gleefully reminding me of a propensity to spread.

Like a mischievous child, gone crazy with the paints,
stabbed me with the blacks, till I ran away with shame.
Helpless as horror, gaping strung up, and untamed,
My perpetual climax community left me covered: alone, and in pain.

04/29/2002

Posted on 04/29/2002
Copyright © 2025 Tim J Bono