Monday, October 10, 2016

Poem: 'Cravings' by Andy Bove


Blood runs and pores
From every sore
To the tongue that
Waits and begs
And searches with
A fever from the
Ache and haunted
By the memory
Of the taste from
The drop that came
The drop that just
Sits there waiting
Patiently delaying
The moment a little
More til I am a mass
Of inhuman depravity
Immobile and wailing
And clawing at the air
From clean and spotless
Oh please I cry out please
Little sore
Can’t you squeeze just
One more drop for me
A little more blood

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