the sweatshop of a bulimic sinner
This is the part
of the poem where
I am supposed to reveal the
precise number of times I have picked up the phone to call you. But instead
this is the part of the poem where
I rest my left palm on my nightstand Bible,
lift my right hand in the air and confess
I have never been fond of numbers but
zero and I get along just fine.
I am supposed to reveal the
precise number of times I have picked up the phone to call you. But instead
this is the part of the poem where
I rest my left palm on my nightstand Bible,
lift my right hand in the air and confess
I have never been fond of numbers but
zero and I get along just fine.
These 85 days of
subtle silence has been a chatty old maid –
A painfully bent humpback rogue perverted under a lifetime’s weight of heavy half-truths.
Patent your Henry Ford friendship habits –
Push legions of foggy faces through your emotional assembly lines
Leech and Lie!
Suck souls dry!
This world is your sweatshop –
Oh, bulimic sinner!
After everyone else has abandoned you
I pray you find a headless John in the desert of your soul – showing you the way of repentance, for
running cannot save you
silence cannot cure you –
who will rescue you on that day
you chase after the wind and stop to play
in the same street an absent mind
simultaneously drives down
but doesn’t see you until it is a moment
too late
A painfully bent humpback rogue perverted under a lifetime’s weight of heavy half-truths.
Patent your Henry Ford friendship habits –
Push legions of foggy faces through your emotional assembly lines
Leech and Lie!
Suck souls dry!
This world is your sweatshop –
Oh, bulimic sinner!
After everyone else has abandoned you
I pray you find a headless John in the desert of your soul – showing you the way of repentance, for
running cannot save you
silence cannot cure you –
who will rescue you on that day
you chase after the wind and stop to play
in the same street an absent mind
simultaneously drives down
but doesn’t see you until it is a moment
too late
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