Mira.

Hot water on a platter to lather the bloody spit pool
I’ve shifted, pulled, pushed and prayed for that honeycomb bull
It’s there, it happened
Now I’m clapping with a sad frown
Back down to laugh loud at the fact that I’ve passed that now
It’s in the chest;
cold, curdled, cracked, crooked, and cooking
Laying in bed with a fell asleep head that likes looking
I can feel the smell of her life swirling through her gypsies with all the secrets
I’ve know myself to fall and still I pre-release it
I’m being me though, me means us doing the three-legged race with no latitude
Gravity, please slide me there and show gratitude
It’s all neon like, and that to me seems to be worth sweat
This is my sunrise confession in the middle of the night with no nets.

–Rudi Goblen

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