Butchery of the Human Heart
2 December 2004
Vol. 4, No. 4
poetry
All fist and forearm,
apron-stained, I am nothing to you—
a scrap. A skin. Offal of lust.
I am giblets and gristle—
Lament
2 December 2004
Vol. 4, No. 4
poetry
This pack of pot-bellied songbirds squats
at gutter's edge all night, passing butts
of Lucky Strikes and belting the blues.
My window's stuck up and I'm laid low.