A sound injured moth
cries out for the monk.
Socrates stands tall –
mimicking the taming print.
Her tech talk drivels,
your vomitorium sheets.
Her tongue forms gills in testaments.
objectifies your disproportion text.
Happiness feels nauseous.
It spews depressed introverts.
Joy grows frail –
its foul odor covered in emails
and marked phrases.
The M loops rumbling –
papilla bumps interrupting –
The cheek man –
drinks from the remnant diverticulum,
give me your apologetic buttons.
Freudian artificial – blinds the 2nd exile –
Jerusalem opens her legs wide,
pierce this pain in your v-shaped instinct.
Copyright © 2016 Charlie Zero the Poet
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