It seems like I'm only happy when retching, fitting the culling call in my throat;

circling my 12 geese (knowing what they've been through),
like a rare eagle beast ready to rupture their necks in a moment of stupid worship;

The thought of blood can never describe this feeling of lust;

(like a volcanic stupor edging its way toward my head, never relenting,
solitary but undemanding, every word I speak; lies. It never feels like
the truth I'm ruffling about even when my head is split and squawking
disgraceful dreams from my severed tongue, feels like a vice of feathers;
and claw grabbing about it (& I cannot break the bond).
Demanding I say something horrific, instead of my mellow daydreamings)

I will not speak of it, the fact that a god mated as if
a swan upon waters, not quite impregnating but filling me
with an unreasonable desire (it is me always, I can't bear
the scratching, the moments of passing where I can soar
and see what really happened.

It's never a nest but always a branch from where I am being pushed!

One more dip in the electric vat is all I pray for,
that quiet moment before my throat is slit; am I supposed to shiver,
to rupture all my sense at the thought of you placing your warm hands
around my neck?

It's obviously that time of year again;
this bird is ready for slaughter.

03/12/2013

Author's Note: I actually like this one. It is pretty much how I feel at the moment. x.

Posted on 03/12/2013
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