Spry rye

Spry rye prances across the fluorescent horizon

while its twin scurries away from it,

where the scent of bourbon clogs the

cataracts but the twin

stumbles across late-night fucks.

Spry rye exposes the world for what

it is–twisted, tangled, tainted

yet, its twin’s retina reeks of severed,

somber scars, tongue-tied in a

mausoleum with shackles on the

windows and doors which

stain of midnight hour smacks.  

Spry rye stumbles on kneecaps to see words 

crafted by castrated, chapped palms

bound by solipsistic sermons 

poised to inflict nascent nomenclature

with embryonic use of containment.

Spry rye twitches

with a creek of hindsight

frolicking around at midnight, 

where its twin revives the royals 

wrapping bedazzled, blubbery forearms

giving each other butterfly kisses 

and exchanging solemn vows 

I love you.

Spry rye

nimbly retires

while its twin hears 

echoes of erratic derivatives   

wincing tenacious tears from

fists and lighters

Please stop.

Spry rye prays 

for dehydrated purple patches,

while its twin wants all those 

paraplegic aptitudes to be vacuumed

from that unsung, litterbug, tongue.