the damned

the damned

D. W. Metz

i once stepped through
a piece of glass
as a child walking
home from school
sanguine essence dripped
through my sole
through the gaping wound
of teeth and tongue
a demon entered
i’ve been a suicidal mystic
i’ve kissed god
and bitten his head off,
i’ve died a thousand hearts,
a thousand colors,
a thousand deaths of
sex, joy and sorrow
and still i walk
with narcotic precognition
through rehab,
through the vatican
through dante’s hell
with visions of goddard
and kubirick keeping
journals of confession,
condemned saints
who shared my travels,
these are their trials,
histories and eulogies,
poetry is the tombstone
of experience,
nothing i write is my own

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