In Hollow Pulp, She Implores To Be Slain

Base passion as the dress, 

with worst passions flowing down, 

riding on the frills that stretch 

outward, to the world

Against all goodness, against all faces

Including her own, oh,

Most significantly her own

It is the measure that securely, 

Defeats any ripe, buoyant possibility

For glory to break through


The glory weighed

Apart from her, is the glory employed

To hastily morph into weaponry

Such sweet, delightful weaponry 

It invades and caresses, it ruins and satisfies

In hollow pulp, she implores to be slain


To be continued…as I further my Melanie Klein reading…oh the breast, you’ve wrecked me so… 


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Filed under Anger, poetry

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