it’s just like a gunshot
these hot words in my head that force
blood to move
for once I am not tar
and the girl on the back of this page
she is certain
I will find a way
she sings it “goes on and on”
and it will
If I don’t stop it myself
to me – you are just a hallucination
looking at yourself
trying to decide
if you are real
I want every ounce of your phantom
to penetrate my spirit
and break me
but I do not exist
because when your gaping petals expand
just to taste the blood of Christ
every velvet ant will find his way
to your core
because when you are born on the mouth of July
you are a sedative blue tongue
and they will come to extract
you from your veins
because your short life is meant to feed
caterpillars, it is impossible
to assume that you would be
collected in the fall
for more
Today I have a theme. I am cardboard, Earth truly is flat.
We lay, either way, recycled by
the Sun.
If you met him, you would know how he melts rocks
in one gaze. His superpower
is ignited –
and we all will lose.
I eat paper waiting for the fat.
I don’t know if I exist,
and does it matter?
To some, maybe. But then I hear the voices
rushing by something
imaginary.
I guess it’s all about being a pretty rock
on the way to the Sun? Forgive me. I am ignorant.
That’s just not enough.
I fold my dirty body next to the sun as it falls to sleep across a boneyard.
Our Daughters sleep in there, clinging on to life and on to death.
They strip down to breast and bone for swine,
gnawing on their own skeletons for some Great Man to tame them.
They play in ash playgrounds, burnt down by thieving snakes of virginity.
Our hands can do nothing.
Our Book does nothing.
Our Sons are bound, shackled by veins to elusion.
They strain, barefoot in the desert where demons build their muscles on doubt and hesitation.
Fear is a great interruption to the infant shadows that remain young nuisances
until trepidation grips its claws around their hollow shoulders and carry them away.
And, as the boneyard grows next to me. I lay, with burnt wings, in a chill that never dies.
winds sail slow
arriving with difficulty
to confession
I speak against another
back turned
burned by sun light
I am familiar
with the dark –
with poison
with automatic disappointment
that my lips may
part for lava
but not for pardon
and I sail slow over
raging seas
arriving with difficulty
to confession
where familiar darkness
speaks mostly
about me
maggiemaeijustsaythis 