in
these sepia-toned rooms of
memory
i relive25 years of drowning
in
the season of ascension
we
eat only fearand i have these pictures and i
have these poems and i am
not sorry for being thin
enough to fade from view
i
have no use for your
anger
and none for your pain
we
were there at the table
when
the bulletcaught christ in the throat
i
was fucking your
sister
on the afternoon mygrandfather took his
own life and
listen -
confession isn’t art
the
starving know enough
to
view your god as nothingmore than so much meat
all
magic is contained w/in
the
moment of revelationand then all that’s
left is dust
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