Epigram ‘n Aphorism Samwiches

Paper Mache Man

Your vitriol --
Ten mega ton blast
Shreds the paper-thin soul clotting
Like paper mache.
Soluble, malleable.

Hide this head
In dusty crate
Deep within, down below
where I keep moving,
Hope you don’t find, knowing
All the moving will bring you nearer
By skill or serendipity...
Until your fuel-raged vehement
Rips through the gauze
I neglected to secure.
I’m not a nurse
And these dressings don’t suffice
For wounds that cannot heal
Without the salve of words
You could dispense,
Instead of torment I wish
I didn’t have to endure,
Repeatedly.


She’s gonna get medicated now...

9.16.18
7.16.21 edit, make public

An idea I didn't fully realize, and cannot imagine much about its origins. 7.16.21