is it my sin
to possess the
that reveres within
the acrid chambers
of my uncloying heart
with each sacrificed
and is it my sin
to have basked in
the tantamount pains
and pure fulfillment from
which it absconds in
trite outbursts, yet when
all one can observe is
a dilettante vindication?
Don’t stop drinking, the water will hold
I’ve got a tap on the oceans, seven-fold
Did I bruise your two lips efficaciously?
You’re an adenoidal suicidal blue baby
Sterile words are asthenic sanitisation
Are you embarrassed by that attention?
A cavalcade of tragedy and menagerie
Demarcated flirtation in grave robbery
My wink scheming pertinent adulation
Vindication is not the equivocal potion
Presentiment is a faux rubbish tumbril
If you wish to execute me, I’ll fire at will.