Why does the sky

keep bleeding into my wounds

while I am not finished

with my own inner cuts?

I have a punishing need

to hold down the stars

to my own, tasty part

which I do always devour.

 

Betrayals and bereavements.

I have schorched the grounds and kept the books

out of those who can be trusted

to have a deal with.

To share a meal with:

whether its food or love.

Lovers and lunches

are all best kept most real.

 

Adorance and absolution

are the rooms of  the growth: 

I need to follow those roads

like a  lil' cosmic Alice

who finally has found

her inner sound

and the tunes of lunacy

are swirling around

of the neverending skies

landing down onto my skin.

 

I keep on tattooing myself into

a better sin, into a  future.