tapeworm clutter

He was tapeworm
his sister had a bad perm
sitting on her head,

edge of the bed
in a knife sliced
corridor of light.

These thoughts,
that leaned like a weak tree
in cutting breeze.

These thoughts
that we’re never straight
rather a child’s hurricane scribble.

A mental ball of twine collecting clutter.

And when the cobra struck, I thought of you naked, ready to suck the venom or offer the antidote.

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