When It Snows In The Desert…

there is no grace. Each flake is a poisoned needle
jabbing in my skin.

Every sting of winter is a piece of
her blue eyes,

and
his blue lips barely parted in a box.
I imagine his last breath and
wonder if it felt like Winter,
if it felt like the cold prick of
hell jabbed into his veins.

Winter has chained me to the past.
What is lost weighs more than everything
Winter has ever given.  I imagine her singing,
and if she sounds like Summer.

I know that I am here now, and I can never go back,
but still, I wonder,
when it snows in the desert.

This Life And Thereafter

For every one I have killed, I have killed the heart of two,
and taken the hand
of the most Sinister Man – his Red Blood has turned mine Blue;

and, no, I did not whisper under breath, or breath into his ear,
I simply looked through
a man, maybe two, who’s soul had smothered in fear.

I am satisfied! I am satisfied, as I swim throughout their ashes.
I feel their bones,
their dangerous undertones, then my Blue blood flickers and flashes.
Now, I know I am Queen of Sinister things;
this life, and, thereafter!

The Devil’s Home

The sun lays September to rest,
my single tree quivers
against black canvas, frost steals my breath
and this night makes it hard to be a river.
My moon cannot gaze quick
enough in any direction, I stumble
over boulders, though these dormant feet stick,
one-side of heavy rubble.
Gentle, I offer, white whispers,
(and knuckles), as I lay my head to rest,
because, as he often does, the reaper
shreds nightly peace, to build a home in my chest!

The Death Of Roses

He’s splashing in cyanide tonight,
elbow deep in death grease, peeling it off
long enough to shout his love at me.

My bed is empty like this,
I lay here, empty, like this,
sipping on his poisonous spit.

The clock hisses,
my eyes burn like his swollen skin,
sleeping beasts await me
and I sit here,
just empty, like this

while he bathes in acid
and cries out his love to me,
he stands long enough to dry a bullet
and point his shaky finger at me,

I take my time,
watching the roses he gave me
dry,
each petal smells toxic,
I can’t touch them they will crush.

The clock spits after midnight,
he washes off in rust
then rushes off to spread his love on me.
I am here, like this,
empty, waiting,

for his cyanide to save me.

Then He Asks Me For A Prayer

it won’t be long

the Japanese death garden sings wildly
across the world

I whistle back, a soft. black tune
and lose my eyes to winter

I sleep with her on desperate nights,
her hard skin teaches me
God’s lessons.

I am a body of ache for men to pour their
pain into, she tells me how to behave.
I cry that I am to be a desert,
I am naked, on my way there.

She holds me quick, against her cold
and blows me into prayer,
I lay deep in hell, but I swear, God touches me here.

He reaches through me and pulls
out a song. He whispers,  “it won’t be long”
then asks me, again, for prayer.

Berries and Bullets

The night is thick with hot lead,
bullet dust. His empty pockets
strangle his hands that once were full
with pride.

Beer drips from his words, he buries his head six-feet deep in my lap. Catching the scent of love, he moves faster than tomorrow.

I laid out my arms,
and across the world to make it,
but his poison comes with the smallest gesture,

his lips against my back, a
hot cyanide whisper as he rises,
“I’m sorry.”

He throws on his shadow like an old jacket, hands back in his pockets.
5 a.m. I’m alone.
Face down in a puddle of his poison, I drown.

Tomorrow will catch up with me,
I’ll eat the sun for breakfast.
The earth will grow wild berries
and he will come to find me,

on a Hot Sunday,
melting lead
back into bullets,

he’ll spread my arms by my wrists, untangle my naked fists, furious at his abandon…

but, for him, I will lay across the world to make it,

On The Day

Oh young, on the day she turns
over a new leaf, sun-damaged
veins, shrivelled death

six-feet to go, to sleep,
to walk in to
her dreams, flat-lined
sex, drawn out of virgin
delirium

strawberry fields in
fast decay, on the day
she turns, sixteen
nights after the drunken man
is fast asleep

on the edge,
on metal terror
pumping through her
veins

this is the one,
the hidden light,
night fury flies past her eyes

everything is tight
blood crushes blood, through
life-less young eye lids
she cries, he’s too fast,

a shrivelled raisin on black top
oh young, that night, and what it means,
the night takes, the air
rips

open, stealing her lungs on the day
she turns.

Stones

Stone clouds tell her story.

Today was dry before grey stomped
over head.

I wish I was her. She reminds me

how to cry like my pupils are perfect moons,
ten thousand drops on the prick
of every sharp edge .

She shapes me,
she wraps me in her moisture
when I am filth, then leaves.

I forget. I fly around memory
and time like
it still exists,

like one floor leads to
the next floor,

like today isn’t meant to say anything,
I hope

for silence underwater,
my big head under
water
breathing out every last danger

until my old body is
roaring grey stone,
floating in over head,
reminding someone to fly around
memories
and time
like they still exist.

Away With The Night

You who are with me,
who ache with me, please,
lay still, hold your breathing -
we are sinking
we sink,

beneath wings of bad mothers,
through sad voices of home
our dead limbs fall off,
our bones sleep on their own.

You who are with me,
who are silent at night,
who separate stars, who burn with out light

hold on
hold on
to the hands of these words
we are sinking
we sink

through this very dry Earth.
God isn’t softening,
we are starved by disease,
by darkness, by deepness
of the valley’s between us.

You who are with me,
who ache life away, lay still,
hold your breathing,
hold on to your life,
we are sinking
we sink

away with the night!

Sad Forest Of Dread

Sad forest of dread, your morning crowds me
with loud hatred
and the whole world crawls in my head.
They sit on my couch, spilling coffee and
lies. Gross laughter – snorting
at sticky children.

I have said that I am not a city
to muck around, but they watch me
like my ancient bricks are
Italian art,

my legs,
my hands,
my lips become earthquakes

I am the black silence, awkwardly shaking
against the wall while a baby
crunches tomatoes against my skull,
and this flimsy morning is
scalding me with people

carrying invitations to disease.
I want to be free of
this nausea
and take some of their trade,
but I cannot.

My skin has been nourished by neglect
and poverty, I’ve been
eating grass roots and building castles
for worms,

and if you follow my example, you might be the
wisest, and the loneliest,
to ever sit in this sad, sad forest
of dread.

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