let’s draw blood

blood transfusion in a fucked up poem:

eyes meet, hearts melt into puddles of misery,
a guy shot a man, and a man a guy
at midnight when the sky was pistachio-green
and earth slightly shifted beneath their feet.

love is common place – words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug, hugs are given up
in arms that rattle like broken windows, and

they dare say,

*“This is not what we came to see…”

.

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*”This is not what we came to see” is quoted from Brian Patten’s poem The Projectionist’s Nightmare.
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry and With Real Toads.

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