Over my lips run
sweet spots thirsting
murmurs release
disappear at my touch
head tipped drains
the pulse of blood
warm and red
ear still pressing
listening.
Each loud noise inaudible.
Not even a breath spills.
Fingers on my throat
desire for me to choke
false life or real death
choose.
Do not lift the slimy veneer.
Do not search underneath.
Truth is: fraudulent conduct
infection manifest
into the body
the profit worm turns
sub-human, generated
trickery its key
spend, renew, grow;
but a good parasite does not
kill its host, so…
what was I talking about again?
~
Copyright © Kelly Huntson and kellyhuntson.com
“… no one of intelligence resents the inevitable.”
—Arthur C. Clarke
