I am
A
Mouthful
Of mornings;

The intangible scratch
Of a nagging whim
Transitory,
Fleeting,
Ad infinitum adrift,
Drunk on cheap wine,
Sated on hollow sex,
Raw as the cerebral pretense
Of misshapen truths,
An overfed intellect
Veiled by the visage
Of an unsullied child
Wide-eyed
Pristine

I
Watch bruises
Flower
From
Bloodshed
A half-groomed
Life
Scars move
Like phantoms
Across bellies
The twist of a thousand
Lovers
Lost to the chasms
Of an unruly mind