Birthday – David Sprehe
October 28, 2019
Pit death flower.
Pedals blot sky, grey viscera shifting and speaking.
“Hope! Hope! Elope!” they say.
Tendrils uncurl to capture.
Numb where feelers touch along skin.
Floats off, clots, skin does, a plop sucked and bubbly soaked into wanting dirt.
Pop out eyeballs.
Scream, brain! Wind touches and tells bad secrets.
Fall before flower.
Outstretch arms, embrace tendril crawl wiggle over exposure.
A numb come, no such thing as love.
No world exists, none.
No others of any kind.
On knees in wind kisses before gaping winking flower pit dead hole
Blind, numb not.
Wait, wait for swallow process.
Big he haws: come go try die.