I live angrily as
a nest keeper. Of giant twigs,
stressed circles, cradled
meadow sprigs –
a sharp bed intrusive to Slumber-
land. A rude
carnivore bites at my tanned
leg lines.
Once, I rolled toward
nest Head,
Bed Bug…
his bullish limbs
clutched my merit,
kindred as
orange and red compass.
We slammed hammers to habit,
congested air particles with
polluted hate vomit, we
danced each other into cement,
off skyscrapers to meat cleaver sidewalks.
Until, nests became pine boxes.
Boulders rolled in,
crushed my nose into
lines of dead life, I inhaled.
With everything I had, I inhaled, as
shards of pine darted
from his eyes.
Lies followed, grabbing each arm, lifting
my body
through gray skies. Tears wobbled out mortified
ducts,
raining small crux drops
over orange-red meadow sprigs,
ambiguous layers shed under liquid
suffering.
Now, I live angrily as
nest keeper,
whistling out at dead meadow
straw to rope Lynch Law in,
Justice for Him.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 