Jen Juice

What to have or have not is not my rhetorical mindset, not even how I alienate
and pretend…to lock up
it’s a happy place even with a serendipitous slaughter of some family members
that never reigns to the place of reality or novelties of sanction.

don’t light a match cause the oxygen may implode
to the happy place
we all know

creatures crawling in the impending noose
with the magnificence of the surreal plots
I don’t really have one, not even in my happy place

Rocking back and forth
To the Asian robe I serenade like the subtle geisha that lays in my diary
Memories gushing through the lit room I found the moon penetrating
Singling out debauched presents of thought
Like the torment and the habitual founding wicked names

I don’t mention when I talk
Not even when I speak, no not to you or the latter version of the distraught –
of how you symbolized my momentary lapse of condemnation and fault.

This entry was posted on June 13, 2011 at 8:07 PM and is filed under Jencerpts.. with tags Death, Family, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.