feast

Let spill the sizzling hilt of sword

that dams your flooding blood with steel

the lapping blade, its greedy stains

which bring the coping rain.

 

My vision blurs, I sink and swirl

and every cell within.

my poison will never win

I vomit ink to cure the meat

of pages of empty sin.

 

Make me a steak of refusal-fate

and I’ll spit in my hand and grin.

I’ll slay whatever filthy hound

would cut my bile with gin.

 

I don’t know who I am when all these wordlets nip my skin

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