The night before New Years Eve
body shivering in a cold shower, drowning my consciousness until I cannot feel— or think— or more importantly, remember. And then drip all of heavens grace through twenty nine years of decomposed roots and weeds; The wet black earth of a cemetery; This is the substance of my being— and I will sip it as the foulest tea, and I will piss it down your sink drain, until all your winter landscape is the color of a little boys crayon wax sun. Copyright 2009 Matt Kane ... "matt kane" seattle poetry " ...
Author: mattkaneart; Tags: matt kane seattle poetry poetry blog
