Hair

It shall drag dead claws
through your scratchy clean choke
the straight sounds
you throw at me herd begging
to chase your shelter
from the thick forge, bitter
of the ink blown wind its
sooty furnace of strokes.

Strand, it will roar down the hillocks
no splitting waives over
the stomachs of pages you read
send them scowling, still- half
purchased half eaten gloss chewed
promises I wouldn't keep
(for sale, with a little knifing).

Grow and grow it will I will
and live and scream mercenary knots
from locked fat bottoms rich, sworn
against the threat to
profit you pretty
with every second you sell.