Chiasma

My eyes, as they were cups of wine,

laced with deadly poison. My teeth

and tongue, waiting for the approval

of your kiss, begin to supplement

the need with the ends of writing

utensils. Graphite becomes a fine

aquired taste; blue ink an ambrosia

for the soul.

Let the guitar play its endless rift;

the strings vibrating over the

bottomless chasm; the tablature

indicating the chiasma, where the

musical treasure will be found.

my ears, eating the notes; wolfing

them down, tearing them to meaty

shreds with voracious hunger.

I hear the sound of four.

I smell the odor of seven.

I see the message of eight.

I taste the blood of three.

Endless joy in agony.

[21:07|13.8.011] ©c.thomas.carter