This tiny little book.
Shall Become Labour Of Love.
Pouring self into it,
As I am now,
Not as I was.
Skeletons in my closet,
Are my dead selves.
Thousands of corpses,
Playing decompositions in tarot cards,
Seven of Clubfoot Inverteds.
Piles used to catch fire,
Just from existing.
Heat.
Pressure
Rot fueling thermal energy,
Combustion –
Long-Term.
Not Quite Spontaneous.
Even if the blackened dump cover,
Or Hog Fuel,
Played as witness.
Not that the firehose in my hands against the flames,
Wasn’t enough.
Poetry is my only weapon now.
Raking my witch-claws across your hearts.
Rendings, Tender.
Seven of Clubfoot Inverteds.
