8. (MOUTHFUL OF BLOOD)

Pulled into the naissance of two cesspools
aging with despondence and soft lips;
i remember this tune, i remember this tune,
i remember this, bloom, standing next
to a stranger looking up with a vacant blink—
she’s gone, maybe— still in the equator of real.
Taking chance down in a sip, i’ve left,
without care for what’s next.
Hers could be holding the rare, disposed body
of the love of my life.
Into the cold anyway smearing skin closer
to our bodies; the thin of a knife too sharp
for the rest of wooden women strangling midnight.
What doomed and prancing affections;
fine enough for a grenade of gals too
spun to know the difference between grand.
The rest hang at an edge with little armed
insects doing their damndest to hold on to what 
little sugar staggers on a cane in the asylum.

8.