If there were rules prodding people in the spine with sharktooth-like objects, maybe people would talk.
I found a mystery poem in a mystery book.
I wrote this once, I mustve been drunk because I have no recollection of writing it.
I've sung to turned backs unravelled myself to string lines of harsh-veined poetry
They've worn my skin to the opera, I followed in tow, More than naked, fanning them with their own eyelashes
And the meat on my bones I would lay on wet pavement like a noble cloak protecting their lightly touching down feet
A skeleton in the rain
Some have taken, others refused my services.