A Cobra And A Virgin

Weeds grow thick in his mind.
Light can’t enter in.
Wild thoughts need pruning.
A cobra creeps.
Drugs disfigure sense.

A virgin walks through the weeds to pick a fallen coconut panting on the canal ripples.
The cobra winds her calf, creeps upward, and wounds.
She shrieks in vain.
Her dad lies in an arrack bottle, and her mother in the corridor of insanity.

She sinks down in the diabolic darkness.
Scratches from the thorns of lust lie scattered on her body.

All men aren’t men.
A cobra in human shape is highly hazardous.

First printed in issue #16 of The Literary Hatchet, US.