i choose to
brood
in a dirty old
glass of merlot,
there goes my
mood again,
lying gutted-out
on the floor
in a sheath of skin,
that’s the shape
i’m in.
we’ve dropped
the discourse,
the insidious
little thread of us,
or so it seems -
like a maze with
its disturbed
back and forth,
with its no way
outs,
its no way outs.
i’m left no
choice
but to heave
that cumbersome sigh stuck inside.
you’re at the
helm
of this
voracious vessel upon which I ride.
straightened my
course, you
left me a signal
on the starboard side,
kissed me once,
then bon voyage.
kiss me once,
then bon voyage.
so, i choose to
brood
in a dirty old
glass of merlot,
the legs of
which
cry full-bodied
crimson tears,
they stain my
cup,
then i drink
them.
kiss me once,
then bon voyage.