I feel happiness like a chill; she passes me on the street with her eyes cast to her feet where chains drag along her heels. Not a whisper between us or a hint that it’s all for real, it’s like one second I feel you, the next second’s too near, and you’d never know the debt that I’d owe if you leant your ear and you won’t, you won’t because you don’t even know that I’m here.
But sorrow is good company.
Her pussy comforts me and keeps me warm even though her thorns still keep cutting me. Torn memories stuffed in her ovaries till they grow and become the sun in the sky that spies down on our lives wondering, how could I have come from such suffering? How did I fly above it all to sit this high among the gods who want nothing but the company of flies upon their walls -a million little eyes to look in awe at all these fucking things–?
But guilt needs no worship.
Regret is just a person, and no angel, thank Satan; I’ve had enough of wings.
Pigeons always fly the coup. Mary was no virgin. God fucked her plenty when he gave her that dream and then he made her his queen and then he had her son murdered, “words are just words but the blood has a purpose,” that’s what they all say but it’s worthless.
And pain has no price tag.
But the shame cost a high tax that weighs 40 ounces and a dime bag every time you climb out of that pine glass with your eyes clasped round my fucking mind snaps where the fuck is I at in this cookie jar trap? My hands gnawed off by the crook in your glance because I reached too soon; guess I ruined my chance; is there no more liquor? Someone do a rain dance, I need a draft;
I feel happiness like a chill.
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