Orat Zeppelin III (mother napalm)

It isn’t easy, and it isn’t me. It isn’t her either, it’s this idea
Of ourselves we’re after; happy as it were, and burning.
Drinking off a woman who is nursing me to sickness, has
Devised the means to have this be the supplement it’s not,
A gift that’s unforgiving. Supposedly, love develops from the
Bringing close of opposites, the binding into synthesis of must
And cannot be, murderous and nurturing and obviously grieving;
The womb as is expected to bear comfort first then fruit, relief
Before fruition – tell from veiled intention what it means to
Spread both legs, his hunger as inflected in the gap of start
And go, first and only: mother to the least monstrosity to come
From ruptured vial, to defile the alma mater. Love that I can do
Without – the carnal indestructible. The need to take by force
What birth had made my nature’s right of: abundant earth that’s
Undeserved and wrong to feel this proud of.


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