poem: i held a peach carcass in my hand

i held a peach carcass in my hand:

the wet, warm body above the streets

where rain-soaked cars flung themselves

like missionaries across the rain-soaked plastic globe,

the one that once lived in my mother’s attic,

before i destroyed her.

i put my bloody fingers in my mouth

and watch the flesh drip like rain to the cement

where people scuttle over sidewalks

like ugly de-evolved crabs, always quoting Shakespeare,

the original printing of it kept in my grandfather’s attic,

before i put him away.

i am eating a raw plum

i am very still in the busyness

the people below me do not even look up to see

what an odd little monster i am.


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