Tuesday, November 22, 2011


You strike me with your axe, 
but I do not bleed.
Pitted with rust, its edge is flat.
Splintered bones pierce your lips,
as they break between gnashing teeth.
In a sober rage drool drips.
On a smoldering fire sits your bronze spitoon.
Your words echo as you eat,
across the hollow room.
[20 SEP 07] 

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