Monday, 2 May 2016

May the Blood of the Moles Never Thicken

“Tête d'homme” (Head of a Man) by Pablo Picasso (1907)

For every quarter of the leap year’s calendar they come to test the feelings of their victims
Curiosity is the central district of navigation
So finger the lock
With clumsy intention an evil plot will quiver under the pressures of success
There is no such thing as a loyal friend
Bound in the bed sheets of virginity
There’s a rash where flaked skin
Soaks the ambiance of emergency, always a sense of emergency
That shrieks
Along the hardwood floor the stains of the blood will mark the territory
Of the trust slaughtered

In the name of obligations
There’s no surname to suit the such
But a frown is always an indication of the such so the such is the one who deserves
The cruelty of currency  
Inside the walnut ward
The walls are plastered with plastic flowers
Which hangs off the hinge
Rusted with the century old dare of peeling away at the heritage
You go on the inflictor
Why must predators water their plants with the blood of their vulnerable
What’s in the climax of a ghost story

That causes a giggle on fucked up terms
A correspondence of text messages alludes to the alluded to without the mentioning of who
Whom is the victim of obligation
How do you look into the eyes of the, your enemy
And suppress simultaneously
The urge to burst out laughing
Through the translucent spine
There’s not a single bone to pinpoint the peak of intimidation
An alien creature walks the length of the hall
With a mole on its face
Why does it opt for blood