Poem: Constrictive

This was recently published in Xenith.net

Enjoy,

Owl

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Constrictive

the city has no arms.
he squeezes the back
of his neck and feels a python.

no legs. success
means to crawl.
wings lurk above,
embellishing towers.

thoughts can’t move.
motion isn’t contact.
everyone has their own terrarium,
hiding a few scary eggs.

he masturbates
and it feels like squeezing a reptile,
cold and unresponsive,
lack of breath--

an attempt to kill something,
some vengeful clue
hibernating
in the constrictive gloom.

the night pumps delirium,
a saturnalia of lies.
hope without ethos
or grace.

one primate stands up,
sobbing suddenly
in the rain.


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