• Seneca Basoalto


You were born to be a Damocles. It's in your name / you share the same snake-like entendre     you lure, into love and linger the sword of your lust, provoking strokes of luck into fire and your rotting teeth grind on spongy hearts like punch-drunk birds of prey

At dusk, your hands spring into fever / your mouths (you have seven) sing communion into the chasm where you once left my swollen virginity and your stolen identity / the back of you sprawls, shoulders collapse, wide-winged and white dust spilling from my chest cavity as you crack my soul in half in the malevolent sleuth of your unhinged jaw

I wait to be swallowed / as all other men / they wait for your cataclysm, the cautionary verb of your intimidation, the missing N - a symbol that slides from your thenar like Judas hiding inside a throat, consuming fates made of flowers you plucked off  the flats of my feet as I appear next to you / a wraith

Damon. This is where you hide / your anatomy is nothing more

than an anecdote / and sleepless allegory

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