Last night I was assured that all signs of close heart string encounters
are relative to the homoerotic vessel that abducts this agency.
You're quite the hostess darling, how utterly domestic of you.
A regular fag-hag wifey.
And meanwhile, all these unsaid words could fill a dictionary.
A vocabulary of secret nothings.
Where A stands for ah, never-mind, I hardly even recognize you anyway.
My special place is covered in ash, after time erupted meaning away.
But I could put on lipstick with the color of my cracked nail cover--
ox blood for my black witch heart that glimmers in the artificial evening light.
And I could cast a web, with fine silk strings, or threads ripped from lace lingerie.
I could cast a web and catch a glimpse of something beyond this chasm of cordial gnashing teeth.
And what if the gaze saw through the veil and really looked for once at me?
Could I drink once more from the cup of fucked up fragmented poetry,
and feel for the first time in years, a break in the beat, a cut in my flesh,
something utterly beautiful,terrifyingly real?
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