Bachelor Hand

“I”

It’s not the drought or the dry wit

whitening the blackout tonguing my mind,

but, you’ve the colour in your cheeks—

oh, you’ve the colour in your cheeks, my slave—

of what Indecency paints Fools

when Fools prey on their knees, and I’m a Fool

handing my head over, and “oh!”

(L)over(,) I’ve come to pictures of a Knave.

“We”

This flower’s not what I thought it;

his name’s sweeter after it’s been called. For

what I’ve received—I’ve been deceived,

it seems you’re not the flower I wanted—

rewind th’unkindness of depraved

scenes we’ve crawled; un-scrawl your name from the web

of my cave—I’ll forget you came.

“Thou”

Your Abyssinian hunger

purged a population onto my G-

“ah!”-graphy-hot-Spotted body;

your heir-spitting untamed th’“uh!” of my shame—

though, I know that you wanted me;

you, you’ve lost my trust, adjustin’ Buber

to suit your de-flowered cartouche

“We’ll paint little li(n)es to colour the truth.”

“It”

This flower’s not what I thought it;

his name’s sweeter after it’s been sought. For

what I’ve received—I’ve been deceived,

it seems you’re not the flower I wanted—

rewind th’unkindness of depraved

scenes we’ve crawled; un-scrawl your name from the web

of my cave—I’ll forget you came.