An Empty Crows Nest Poem by James McLain

The bloody smell of my, each after life
from yours each stained black is dead centered,
feeling the wetness inside of your panties
and of each group of you
it has watched openly as it dripps
too coagulate and dry in wait.
my center
which you pull and pull and stretch out even more
and tear at, like an empty crows nest now at my heart.
The cunning thoughts, where the black thorned rose
of night is scattered on your broad wide hand
while looking on at my dream of you with me
and with night more damage comes as you do
full of my blood,
and the long oak it was whom took me
and whom even now as it flows in for me
it's the possession for you is necessity
and it does not do yours in order to breathe
from my wrist or, or because of thee it starts overflowing,
because though broad the black purple knobbed club
wooden from which extend the nails
pauses for it to die and more not to lie as once it died living,
as for one day with you as it is, it was insanity
which excessively makes use of less and less time,
the way that time made more and more use of me.