Odd

[salixbabylon]

I wrote a poem this morning. I don't know why. I usually try not to do that. Blech. Poetry. Random words chosen more for sound and color than meaning, and I never have the faintest clue what the topic even is. Nothing more than so much mental masturbation, adolescent pretension.

I do feel differently about others' poetry. I've been moved by poems, as by art, felt my grey matter shift in response to seeing something in a new way.

But my own poetry? Yuck. So sorry. I'll get back to the smut soon, I promise.


Delicious blasphemy drips into my mouth
purple flavored, sweet,
with tannic sin that leaves your teeth raw.
The Word made Flesh,
whispers of breath against smooth skin,
parchment tattooed forever.
Branded, labeled by holy hands,
inscribed with scripture only visible to the supplicant.
Who will come to me and read my testament,
these words of tangled adoration and despair?