In a way, the blood pressure cuff
is worse than handcuffs.
To know that you are prisoner
to a part within.
One with empty chambers
but that can explode anytime,
or send the blood so forcefully
through ribbon thin corridors
that they finally rupture,
leaving you like a fucking
dying geranium in a planter.
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.
- ► 2012 (125)
- ► 2011 (113)
- ► 2010 (106)
- Cuffed To Your Own Muscle
- 7 characters in non-pursuit of an entrance
- To Hell With All Of The So-Called Cities Of Love
- As If It Wasn't Crowded Enough
- Unshaven In Thinned Out Black T-shirt and Greasy J...
- year after year
- Bone Poems and Blood Moonshine
- 'A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY' BY ROB PLATH IS AVAILABLE ...
- ▼ July (8)