When It Comes Down To Blood

you can have it.
I’ve seen my share.
It’s mostly been my own
but red’s red;
once you’ve seen 
one scarlet gush
you’ve seen them all. 
I know some can’t seem
to get enough and others
can differentiate among
various types to decide
which are sacred and which
profane, but I’ve never been
one of those. Its iron salt flavor
killed my appetite for it
for life. For life — what an odd
locution. To say I could
swear off blood
for life — 
as if I could
and remain alive. As if

blood I refused was trying
to kill me, and only by not bathing
in it could I stay alive in reverse of
Countess Bathory and Dracula and
all those other blood loving beings. 
We all seem to be in love
with those red fountains
even when we can’t stand to see them.
How confusing we are. As for
excess blood:
who needs it?
It’s just a sticky mess. It’s going
to make me miss breakfast. It’s 
not worth my time. I have enough 
of my own, thank you —
do not ask me
to shed a drop more.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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