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Junk Therapy Late night love affair, wet with the anger of passion, in the protection of my crusty sheets I think about you Rachel Drops of painful comfort tripping across my chaste spine, her flesh burns like vodka tonight into the hungover remains of my throat, now a dead end of sedatives and midnight black coffee Shallow pleasure, rations of sweat, I feel her all over me, her ugly body-- the only beautiful thing between us. She isn't even worth the space on this page. Rachel these words have always been slaves I only did this for you-- meaningless bitches, freaks, this language of disease paralyzed in frustration to cemented paper I need to escape our poem so I can become the rank shadow your heart desires Yogesh Chawla This poem is appearing in the Book Atlas on Crack |
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