the insolent insulin mafia
is at it again
the sun and his cronies
the moon as the thin
messenger and the stick of justice. no sugar, no dice
the gaps in my hours are full
of pixie trust, dust and the
dusted upon. the weary and oil skin, leathery oil skin stretched out. the skid marks of time eventually wear down the bitumen when my heavy foot falls upon the concrete i carry some of the way back home
back home
the insolent insulin mafia
is at it again
mosquito with malaises
on its proboscis, cannot miss
this diss, better than the last one, like sulphuric acid
darkening the sugar of my
i wish to be seen only through
a smokescreen(internal or external), so that my features be obscured like the moon behind a cloud(yes of course i like the moon better than the sun I mean who likes the sun) and I can use the mystery as a crutch, hunch and a toddler-like disposition of the gut
but
the insolent insulin mafia
is back at it again
[where does it all go?
i had reason to believe the world had some love floating around. I only got a sliver.
it's more than most
people]
so saccharinely sexy
subtle sarcoma, grow
out of this maybe
but the damn sugar thieves
are never out of work, dirk lodged in my ribs
the insolent insulin mafia
is back at it again
and always will be
YOU ARE READING
Revèuse
Poetry"Everyday we prepare a face, to face the faces we must face." TS Eliot this book will never end, it's a way for me to keep pieces of me safe.
