Wednesday, December 11, 2013

The Hook

Inside my prone lip
sits a curved hoof sharply
drawing me upward

she an old burnt spoon
is being cooked by me
is it any good?

after quick summer
she bubbles into my veins
soon gone by harsh March

is it wise to flop
at the bottom of the boat
of aloof fisherwomen?

Is this affection?
Or relentless sadism?
Is it her warm hands?

Or is it the sight
of bright blood bursting sudden
under her hooked knife?

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