markbousfield

In a peculiar dream I had I was eating cake...

She was worn by the words on her face,
sworn by the tears fallen out of place.

as we collided at the breast
the mist of morning rains lay frozen on her wet dress,

the kiss just a thread of desire
as the waiter served another canopy and consum,

the milky run of years unglued
and the hurt of old lovers standing nude

Forks of affection slipping thin
the ruin of men buried in her thighs still soaked with gin,

He flicked away the last cigarette of the day
like a prayer in an empty rifle fire malaise.

Gently her fingers perved the embryonic silence
like a caustic prognosis

whittled down by doctors and playwrights that would speak
the very mettle of the words in this dream,

then from my chest my heart was ripped upon a medical serving plate,
the pulmonary fully dilated

with scalpel and manhood fragmented
the God loved surgeon descended

with his blooded fingers my body demented,
at once shattered and fellated.