Contrition
Forgive my fat mouth! Topsy-
turvy glutton.
Forgive my fat mouth! Topsy-
turvy glutton.
Will, I wither straight
to you, from Atlantic City’s glitz, whatever sin
I wish I was an anti-type, but, I’m dull, I’m over
hyped. Today,
Who would miss it if it wasn’t gone?
Did they hang
their heads
I was born in a city of blademakers,
The shimenawa, sacred rope, hangs
from the shrine gate,
The walls of the two towers pick up their plaster and dust sucking upwards into blue.
She knows who I am. She even knows when I wonder
if she knows
Twenty right arms, sometimes together, but mostly not,
arc cutlasses in wide, irregular swings, nearly throwing themselves