Categories
Poetry

The Wheel Attributed to Fortune Personified

Another street scene, another walk at midnight.
A sound like the color of fire,
shifting, breaking, flowing back togetherÑ
Love whispering its cough beneath a grate.
Were you there, somewhere teasing the darkness,
the muscle joints in him? Were you, dusting off
the shade, pulling down the lamp, dressing by
taking off your clothes, withdrawing into fuck?
Did time run this way?

Truth is no commodity with me,
It never was.
For all I said, honesty would never
have sufficed—
it brought no cure, not then and it
does not now.
Everything must be gotten elsewhere.

love no passion

The Emblem of Mutability

(sweet) fuck all

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