Tea Leaves and Upturned Tables
Here is my tongue, blackened, with a bite,
just the way you said you like it,
or love it, or hate it, or take it,
or leave it, or save it for later.
There is a perfect balance somewhere between
a bleeding heart and complete detachment.
There is a violent fire burning within,
but I also tend
to wear a shit smug grin,
shrug my shoulders,
and say aw-shucks a lot.
Here is my war, red, raging,
open for the season,
slaughtered in the jungle,
roaring on the mountain.
Poetry is not my final form,
but it put a gun against my guts
and then demanded that I start spilling.
The truth is not a game we play.
All our cards are laid upon the table
with five aces and a hint of blood.
I would never sell my soul,
but I might consider
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