I counted faltering rose petals
upon your dying skin
saw alyce dance in the bloodshot
of your shadowy eyes`a`lid
your veins, they are a musical wonderland
of catacombs pushing liquid bullets, and
it is winter when your breath expels
though summer shimmers upon your die radiance;
there`s a cut on your hand with blood kissing the sky
you think you`re creating a masterpiece
something of Jackson`s Pollock
but his was paint, intentional
not embodied or erosive
choked to the point of yellow stars;
I run a half ` severed tongue
against the strawberry of a field nipple just picked
beneath the sentiment you giggle
remembering how papa was a rolling stone