Remorse is circulated by a blade
splicing veins of pleasurable nature:
drain and outspill the guardian of self
torture is the illumination of cold air
stumbled on granite, alien root
suborning species through fine comb.
How the days staunch desire's lost letter
and digital impress grey-fades
to a prison, remembering bleeds.
You are crazy in the sun, blushing
like a hooligan with flowers, just
a genius, canvassing passion, where
truce silently hollers, detains,
encrusted with my fruit, dried
and needed for victuals, singsong
and rituals, a generative war.
Purity is a voided featherbed
a tumbled fanatic remaining aloof
and stubborn in the clasp of fire
of a type, for the woman, of truth—

Sarah Law | Mudlark No. 14
Contents | S. Francesco riceve le stigmate