queries/

©2021 Michael Raven

twist the fountain pen
bleed some ink spill it like
a spatterpunk novel over
skullcap reams
lockpicking secret diaries
i keep hidden from myself
what do i mean?
are the words not clear?

no

that's because the
wraiths hunt in 
the winter places
deep within 
a place even i dare not tread
because 
 -- it is 
          unquestionably uglier
                 in that dank place
                  that i can convey
we don't open this door
no one is allowed here
said the butler to the fly
ignore the man behind the curtain
he is only a lie

desire stalks the street
high on the bile
axeblades honey dripping words
killer killer killer
who will love him tomorrow?

the taste of ash-infused 
lacrima across my cheek
will the buckthorn serve tonight?

what words? these are not words?
these are hell freshened with barbed wire
this is love

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