Mr. Iskra died today
a murder of crows flew over
and we carried him off to a shallow grave,
unmarked,
and on the edge of town
not a flower or tree for miles around.
I talked to him before he died.
He said he couldn’t stand the look in his own eyes
He said he couldn’t stand the taste in his mouth
He couldn’t stand the rise and fall of his chest as
he breathed in and out
Misery loves company
but obviously you haven’t met me
The nights were dark,
days were darker,
grant me one wish and I’ll live no longer,
A lonely wish,
a lonely kiss,
instead of sweet lips I met a lonely fist
I’ll paint classic portraits with pools of my own blood,
sculpt Grecian sculptures from poverty and bone.
I’m broken on a bended knee,
crippled under misery,
bleeding eyes and broken teeth,
bleeding eyes a broken me.