Sorry for this;
sorry to stand hard behind it, against you: no.
I’m keeping my chest closed to you.
No. You flow your own if you need to
sail on something, be your own boat
on your own river.
No. I’m not a red port.
No. You have not cost yourself enough
to turn around and buy me whole. No.
No. No blood song for you here.
I love you and love you, you know
I love you, but no I won’t sing you
another blood song. You want too many
from me. You drain me drain me.
No. Stop mating as if you were dying tomorrow.
You look stout enough for another ten decades
to me. You have all the necessary clothes
and shoes and such good cheeks and
kiss fattened lips. I think
you’re a whole flood wating to happen so
till you open the perfect smile and get it messy
with a sloppy blood song of your own,
you ain’t going nowhere,
at least not