It’s no time to rainbow a melancholia blues
but then again, when has it ever been—
with a smear of your rouge on my lips
whispering with my tongue
tasting the hymn as I lullaby
with the ink of my masturbating quill
waxing the throat of dark’s insanity
fermenting the hour’s wine
pressing my thumb into the pulse
spewing the juggernaut of my semen
gnawing at my scrota when I blink—
it’s you, the ghost in my teeth
gnashing as I grin in the mirror’s cleavage
watching the bruises bloom like orchids—
it’s no time to rainbow a melancholia blues
but then again, when has it ever been








This one bleeds ink and teeth—raw, unashamed of its own hunger and haunt.
You don’t pretty up the blues here; you bite down on them and grin through the bruise.
Thank you, Thomas.
Hi Atticus,
I’m with Thomas W. case. His comment being a poem in itself.
Yours is almost an abstract landscape of lust. Love it a lot.
Kind regards, Gus
Thank you, Duhsjaak.
Your poem shines in raw, haunting and intense beauty,. You’re a master of metaphors, my friend!
Thank you, Elke.
spurting, telling x
Thank you, Jacqui.