Fault Line

Memory banked
indirect erection
looking for direction
with a busted
compass point

no north
no birth
no life
no death

no motherfucking bearings

no in between
but things
they seem
to creep

thorns they
to cause

a rose budding
on a blistered
thumb print

allowing key card access
to digital virtue

jacking off
in tissues

my nose is running
some higher purpose

my nose is bleeding
I smell iron

searching for
I am

hey man
I’m sand
in hand
and so
are you
we are
so few

dripping through
the cracks
in asphalt

looking for a fault


2 thoughts on “Fault Line

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