Viewing entries tagged
poem

sluice

i was born to chill you

lastingly

you’re good at this,

i think post-rinse

my own cold surge turns me tepid

as your nudity swirls for eternity—

contact quick lingers in my membrane;

the filth i came for—all parts out of my purview

the charge is long and clear at last

black suds

deep scents

mingling with your sliced hair

thick but fair unwanted parts

i am nothing but a puddle

set to drain


'leaves' in reverse

just as you bend for me – i refuse you; cervix closed and low

just as I bend for you my love – backwards on your used, used...[climax]

like a Muslim bending down – you scratch at traditional molds

wind bending its devoted bough – breathing death wasps into velvet bedroom skies

blowing my blood smooth and cold – melting coolness past the rough

wind bending the bough – exhaling dirge

wind shaking the leaves – vibrating each lash

pink streaking the hill – pillow parts winding a willow path

each blank thing begun – clean sheets as erasure

known how to open it – envelope folds tight at the corners

on my soul had I – in my maze inside

have been water – wetness was once

of a work that might – the only job that could

were the author – be a creator

sitting opposite me – parks at the foot of the bed

whether the person – no matter the other

I not know – identity not withstanding

did I know or did – was it sketched or etched

to cover me – under safe weight on exposed skin

for me and made – personalized and sent

filled with bugs made - living crawling sewn in each thread

a nightlike color – if midnight was orange

hidden in it – the stars would hide

men standing in it – men in quicksand

exuded by the three – abundant times redundancy

a green place – a lush reprieve

I saw skulls and then brains – seeking bones and inside

 

- after “leaves” by ariana reines (p.132 in mercury)

the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.

schematic, not to scale

wristwatch tocks

amplified against

internal

search for truth

 

sloughed skin lost,

evanescence meant

eternal

search for youth

 

lachrymal costs,

everything is wet

external

self-abuse

 

used snuffbox

abandoned & bent

diurnal

told excuse

seared

a too small

raw brown pioppini mushroom

extended from the girl’s left orbital socket;

out it peeked from an old, yet inexplicable,

healed through hole in her flesh.

 

the doctors she conferred with in a state of horrified panic

told her there were more, anchored to her ethmoid bone;

the pressure and the angle of the gloved hand palpating yankingly

is a feeling rooted way down in her gut.

 

she stayed frazzled, pointing out such a small cap

to each potential savior in that dreamscape,

doling out a narrative of panic, alerting them all to her allergy,

and the concomitantly swollen scallop edges of her tongue.

 

strangely enough, when she awoke, she did not concern herself

with her eye places—for her mouth, she knew immediately, was far too small;

the seashell gifted her in a mirror located right inside her mind’s eye

transferred seamlessly to the one in her apartment bathroom.

 

she is sure now—the horror is clear,

her dreams deal in

pastel color and pain,

seared.