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.
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
to give something a name of affection is to control how it makes you feel
blind fools, contentious blind fools!
spin close to the breath and spin right off.
creating more of what there already was.
floundering in vacuum
retching in water
grasping at darkness
clawing and such
a black horse quenching at a river unseen
a black tongue dives in,
the mare is at peace,
only wild to my touch.
mighty graceful bulb
unlike anything on earth
until cracked open
worms flood out and over each other
glistening worms of the soil – ravenous worms taste your blood,
vociferous worms say, “you bulb are of the sky,
but you tumor taste of dirt.”
i was told to have a festival within me
a sort of unexplained hoopla
but inside me it is stoppered
and nothing good is festering
progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,
g, wake up early, love life
i cannot channel the spirit that will
help me look forward to paying bills
it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,
with no beating of the drum
nothing to smile about, really.o for it
i have undressed a thousand times
but i still do not know myself naked
why should i, when all i have done
is plaster my image on to a canvas too good
for the likes of my oozing pores
i could scrub out all that is earthly within me
and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth
bound to places, times, memories, maggots
so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should
gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia
i thrust the impressions i have of myself
underneath fervent currents
and carry on,
dirt in my cavities,
dust in my eyes.
i’m a mess these days
and these days are melting away
like candles on the back porch
in the heat of july
it’s only june
i’ve leaped ahead of myself
i’ve made notes and revised
and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early
it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,
it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :
who will die, who will die in july
father, step father, friend, feline?
who will die, die and die,
somber, arid july?
i’d look down at heaven
when I’m done being a sick
what is above heaven
winds and storms of the invalids,
but not a sign of shame
no gorgeous mask.