Hair (Revision)

I shall drag dead claws
through your scratchy Clean, choke
the carded sounds
you spin at me, scatter
the sore herd bleat begging
to chase my shelter
to the thick forge, bitter
of the ink blown wind shedding
a sooty furnace of strokes.

Strand, I will roar down the hillocks
no splitting/waive 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.