the amputee


he’s sewn up,

sore.

and, missing;

something?

some things?

or,

somewhere?


missing.


missing; somewhat?

or, is it, someone?


a jigsaw piece;

minus it’s edge.

a garden hose;

but no hedge.

a windowsill;

without a ledge.


this fascination

with forbidden lust

is an –

amputee –

both arms;

taken;

forsaken.


and, with that being said,

he’s; still;

besotted

with a pair of gloves.


but, nevertheless,

trustily supported

by two good legs.


epiphany;

disregarded.


for, what one lacks,

sore,

one doesn’t

necessarily know

not to need

in these

matters of amour.


and,

regrettably,

one should never

overlook;

what’s beneath,

when able

to take a ride

on

romance’s

intimate see-saw.


nor,

turn their backs

on

true love’s

magnificent stampede;

in boots;

inconsiderately worn.


When violence came


Once or twice

decisions bite unwise, saying;

unforgiving

are the memories,

unforgettable

are the scars.


Scorch marks

embedded in hands of milk

make volcanic craters;

sat in skins of satin silk.

The crash of flesh

into cigarettes;

lights, ignites and separates us.

Sombrely; in torched dark.


Burns; become words;

impressions.

Slash; abstract, absurd;

expressions.


Lacerations speak, some stutter,

of a blade which wreaked;

silent pain,

on arms which seldom mutter.

It took the opening of a cutter;

violence came,

because of an inability to scream,

an inability to speak or utter.

So, lines had to be drawn; extreme.


In disguised minds, unbelieved

eyes of thrice, say;

this living

isn’t just sensory,

existential

are the stars.