i am only permitted the simplest of my perverse pleasures.
i pay my glass and tin for beautiful bruised apples,
cooing and crooning, they are lightly choked in their blue plastic.
i make polite conversation in the direction of the counter.
my lips move listlessly as i plan my assault.
footsteps.
bridgefoot.
breathless, i skin the young beauties with my teeth and discard their soft corpses into the thames.
wind fills my lungs.
the bridge lip as my crutch, i let my bloody spit gather and fall.
my eyes close and i will myself to follow it.
i deserve the peace of being thoughtless pieces.
on these sun bleached voyages i wish more and more to be free of my ribs crushing out breath.
over and over.
again and again.
to be an ornament on the riverbed would be such a relief from injecting myself awake each afternoon.
to be only a crimson hunk of flapping cartilage on the banks of lambeth bridge.
unbreathing.
refreshing.
i really do think about disappearing.
YOU ARE READING
weeds.
Poetrysometimes you need to return to the soil to feel the triumph of what once grew.
