[Rubbish-love] a poem

In the fore-flesh
of your foreground,
is this man,
Antaeus,
dirt on your knees,
slithering around my stick
like a snake
something awful,
this infatuation for the
unfortunate fallen
be it not for you,
in gratitude,
the fallen would be
without all pleasure



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]