histories

my compact is with you, not truth,
and so I rape the universe and call it making love.
we murder reason, and memory,
and all third parties with our indifference
to all but what we want. the id demands breakfast.

and so it is fed, with promises bled
in saline channels through cold flesh
that remembers little but the bitter aftertaste
of wasted words and emotions.
but at least I have my illusion of integrity.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.