You look like you’re going to leave me again.
You kiss fervently, deeply – you’re not here to stay.
You smile more, caress my arms, hold on to my waist, stare at me longer.
If you’ve come back to hurt me, look right at me,
do it quick, don’t give me time to look away.
Picture Credit – Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920
This forest can bow and bend and shelter my nights
it can awaken in my dreams
not unlike the path of the Earth giving rise to the sun.
Art work – Winter (The Flood), 1660, Nicolas Poussin
i am corpse
i was born a corpse
there is nothing to be but.
The Young Virgin, 1630, Francisco de Zurbaran
there is no god so i am witness to my own follies.
you are one among a million of them,
rotting in my ear canal,
screaming for escape
do you feel misguided because you’re the one steering the ship?
fog racing on the back of wind, a faulty needle pointing at nothing
and everything all at once.
long rough hair whipping against your skin, sensitized by the cold,
eyeballs watering, sores bleeding, back crimpling, folding like paper.
you hear the voice of someone asking for security
and the first instinct is to push that voice over board.
it would be safer to swim in the unknown ocean than lose yourself on an unnamed ship.
tiny bird of despair
tiny plant of despair,
fetch your lives from beneath you,
uproot and eclipse your light.
they will have you
and they will have your goodness,
bloody beards and salty palms.
where you are meant to fly and grow,
they will have you where the sun is most cruel.
her grey hair lifts from where it spreads across the pillow,
she wakes in a sweat.
she believes in her dreams,
paying close attention to the man wielding the axe,
made of wisps, made of fear.
she moves to stand up.
surrendering to her will, surrendering his axe,
the man lies down on her mattress, engulfed in her scent,
dreaming of ashen tresses,
and of slender arms lifting a glistening axe.
this house does not creak,
it’s too brand new.
nothing settles at night.
the ghosts of our pasts
stampede in silence
skirting past lamps and vases,
cautious around the cat.
the season has changed,
it’s colder now
and the tree may come out soon.
joy will have come and gone,
no one will have noticed,
for the eeriness
dampening all sound.
i am a ball of lies; truth entwined(?)
all i know is that i wasn’t born with a moral code.
it’s true that what i make believe is not true
because it is only true to my own senses(?)
then nothing is true, nothing is real, nothing makes sense, nothing is here,
the sun and the moon are engaged in a sort of domestic violence
only a few stars littered over the expanse have noticed,
so has the busty owl through the landscape of her eyes