Author Information
Garlic Lung
To make the maidens manic, I
need only to implore
in phrase corrupt by stench, abhorred,
before they board my door.
Knuckles clenched and firm at base;
my feet are growing sore, but hey:
in them I've entrenched, affixed,
welded bolts to floor.
Now a statuesque apparel, worn
like packs upon their backs, explored
by nosey loves who bind and store
a panic-stricken semaphore; I'll
be contained in mid-derangement
and contents given, poured
into chasms that once held promise
and waiting mouths like yours.
