8 The Buddha Gun
Spare room stone floor cold
sweat shakes downfluid
she waits, breaking
sparring forceful monkwhispers
deep headholes gelled skull gapes
iris hush mercurian
let jesus in, between
give god the right, behind
wet leaf brain cruel mush
residue
frail days and furry nighthands
the hands of god in the silent sheets
she her lets the dove fly
soulgroomed to the point of purchase
crucified within her thighs
the buddha gun receives her
tiny light made perfect in desperation
Laura Taylor
Wed 29th Feb 2012 13:11
Okay, now we seem to be in withdrawals, in some of this at least...but reaching the state of enlightenment. The state? A state. Possibly hallucinating it all.