(no subject)

[watercherry]

it dulls the sound of the tambourine, thanks man
and i hate that wretched flute, play the harp for me, Pan
honey had come from your mouth, sticky jewels
that's because bees live inside you
they don't make honey anymore
because you don't feed them
they move feebly about your chest cavity, looking for bitter tar
and moth dust
to ingest
that sound, it wasn't you purring
those angry bees
it was that desperate stirring