Taste of Irk

Bitter sweet on his red stained tongue,

Photos crumble between his callused scaled fingertips.

Doors divide blood,

But nothing exist in his world but he so he picks up the glass and sips.

Hearts rip.


Loved but hated more,

Ungraceful acts can only be tolerated through acquired taste.

Taste of irk,

As muck fumbles out of his lips slathered in sinful ruby paste.

And the smell of her waist.


Gritting teeth to impatient thirst,

Race to devour any sign of peace with an amused blurred spin.

He pretends to stay relevant,

But lines defy so he pours more again and again, again to the rim.

And He wins.