This is the crossed-out face of sarcastic woe, written down the hole,
glossed overpouring in a pool of accidental ink, running through the pages
of a leather-bound journal, putting tireless months to sleep.

Its pitch eats holes around suicide post-it notes
stapled to pink envelopes, screaming bloody lipstick kisses
for the sort-of-sordid clingy spastic creep.

Bleed through single-file lines, it glazes over drafting tables,
watch disclaimer's weighted statement, the conditions of these terms,
serving time to breach-birth contracts signed with steeps of bleeding ink.

The promises blurred across the darkly blotting lines; dripping laughter,
hung off their heads, tearing tears running from this sinking face
of sarcastic woe that filled the holes which bled over disgrace.

06/30/2005

Author's Note: No more bleeding promises.

Posted on 06/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen