by Johnny Crimson
I...I found you in the morning
on the way to the coast.
There, like the flutter of wings,
I felt these hollowpoints kiss into me.
Rest, what rest comes from defeat?
As the regal and putrid,
disagree on the date of invasion.
Silk waves of vibrant information
slip down ivory throats
in the cabin of empty canteens.
Favor performers stand in awe
in the causeway,
as pillars gleam in the flashbulb seconds of dawn.
Spar with the herring
and carve your name in his flesh,
as the evidence dances into your corner.
There were tiny seconds then,
small spaces in time when I could just barely
see the curve of her ass beneath the blanket.
I still have that picture.