Mad writing from Sam Lucero
he ripped into my dreams again last night. my long lost friend.
he’s the familiar shadow of a silver-tongued deceiver prowling on the wine wall, amnesia like sequins beading from the rusty valley of his pores, wet grass, filthy winter rain for eyes & i wrangle it all in my mouth like a siren capturing sea-gems on her tongue-bed, held like a bullet caught between teeth. a chthonic jeweler fashioning a ring from heartsick-heavy brows overburdened, incurably lone, melted down to the joint, onto the bone. but he’s just an old year’s specter. a christmas carol. the hot graveyard dust my breath makes in the cold. like always, never truly him. my pulseless chest is sore from pressing against empty air.
i don’t remember what his kurt cobain, dirty-blonde lips tasted like, except for when they tasted like me. i tore apart a red rose and walked to the corner…
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