Obsidian, ruthless and bold.
Grandiose buildings of crimson
stand tall, erect, and I am small.
I have found a place to whelve
deep within the cracks.
My body racks and twists
into shadows unseen by vultures.
This nepenthe, I am sure of a cure after all.
She is called and once again, I answer
to a different name, a different face.
This latibule cracks open like an Easter egg-
We are exposed.
An orphic place is one I long for.
The active joints setting on keys and
wildly dancing to the low hum of a universal urge.
I am too ready to be pried open-
large and fat as an oyster.
Study my hands, my feet, my tongue.
These lines can be read and tossed
as pages from an old scripture.
The ink is rotten.
Perhaps this selcouth self-adulation
propels me forward, yet
I long for the beautiful black that
will inevitably suck me into it's eternal organs.
I have managed this. I've returned unscathed
by some messy modern miracle.
A stew of pills, a library of needles. Here
I am, men. Behold- I am the wildling
Share This Poem