Two-hundred and Eighty-one: pro-tein

go to bed with the goji god. nine
percent of fatigue burnt. learnt
marble cutting muscle and waning
crescent embraces are just faces
hiding behind heart-shaped sun-
glasses and sugarless lollipops.
add a pinch of salty cheeks. trapped
in a cage made of feathers. whose
fault? stand pillar-still; little, brittle
bones begging: let me be the egg white.

I haven’t written a poem since fucking May. I wish that May had more syllables so I could put the word ‘fucking’ between them -De-fucking-cember. M-fucking-ay doesn’t sound as good. It is autumn but not yet. It is a not-yet-Autumn Friday. Make it a memorable one.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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