The Fawn
Would you approve, if I drilled
into your spine?
Nestling ruptures.
Fizzing, white structures.
You glance, black eyed, divine.
Rigid, on icy chrome.
Shrivelled cornea, alluding
to the past, present
and fading future
In your mirror
I find a fawn
in the jaws of something
you cannot contemplate
Drenched in rusty sweat
Your sobs are mute
Paralysis. Both real and imaginary.
No vocal chords.
No tongue.
No hope.
The Slip
They march through the archway
Following a scent of
cold stone, old books
and closed windows.
He misses her outstretched hand
as they enter
She stares at the floor
and awaits the uncovering.
Was
In taller fields, in pitched down days
Egg yolk sins and whip marked legs
We run for no reason, to hide and to seek
And one day, no more
Oh Dear!
Oh dear!
I’m going down here.
Down to the cellar.
To the, well
I might be a while.
Don’t particularly
wish to return.
Not to that control.
That grey void.
Let the wine.
The synapses.
The words flow.
Trickle, bombard and flood.
The secret, dark fruit.
The electric, tender flesh.
Replenishes a soul.
and nourishes the right.
A ferocious anger
lies beneath in hell.
And hell is where I appear
to want to visit.
but that ferocity brings spirit
in life as well as cruelty
paranoia and despair
On this timeline we all carry it.
exorcise your shame, guilt
anger and regret
Shed your past and be free!
— The Yellow King. You can follow him on Twitter, if he lets you.
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