wrapped around
their necks
like scarves in
orange october
nights.
they were the son's of
beaten house wives,
houses of terror and
violence.
they were the son's of
divorces,
the cheats,
the image of one
strange
strange
man in
bed with their mothers.
they were the son's
hoping for love in
small places like
the back of
car seats.
they were the freaks,
the alones,
the gifts for the
bully
in the schoolyards
from hell.
they understood very little
but knew even
more as they
went quietly about.
the beatings.
this art,
it lands like a red ladybug
upon the shoulder.
it is grown from
karma
going south of the mercury
and
then pulled from
the brown earth into
the white page.
it is not like the
blossom of the rose but
the rot of the withering
weed.
there are nights like this,
strangled.
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