I am
a mouthful of mornings—

the scratch
of some half-born urge,
fleeting,
adrift,
drunk on rotgut wine,
stuffed with hollow sex,
raw as the frayed veil
of a borrowed truth.

An intellect swollen
like a belly of flies,
hidden behind
the porcelain stare
of a wide-eyed child,
unsullied,
pristine.

I watch bruises
flower from bloodshed,
a half-groomed life
splintering open.
Scars wander
like restless ghosts
across bellies—
the twist of a thousand lovers
dragged into the sinkholes
of a rabid mind.