Lift my head from soft evil;
a black chest I know
to well,
arms that swing sharp blades around my throat.
We meet where day begins,
after black out thick ends…
smoke smothers from my pores –
I remember the Cosmos,
shooting up the stars,
crawling out of his damp position
and lift,
lift,
lifting off.
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.
Brought white blossoms,
He did, on curved gravel
roads that stood well.
I couldn’t hear him.
I was riding Bennie, my pale habit.
My powder pastry mixing with me
like toxic nasal drip. I picked up my feet,
Bennie lifted me up, up, up.
We were deep in azure film,
scraping the sky for nothing.
He stayed with His ignorant box of diamonds,
level grounded,
staunchly fixed on my weightless finger.
Benny pulled me.
We floated to the tops of stars.
We floated to the top of dark.
We floated too far,
into the “too dark”.
Bennie was lost.
My ghost!
My shadow, swallowed
by infinity.
That’s when the buried corners came,
with hard-boned smiles and
broken teeth,
thin skinny, barely protection!
They came hard. Shattering moon windows,
bursting starlight.
They came for me!
I tried to scream but I was dry.
They picked at me.
They grabbed.
They reached through me,
straight through my green guts,
where Bennie was.
Hiding.
They shook,
shook,
shook,
trying to shake me off him.
They scrambled everything inside me.
Then, I fell.
Out of the stars. Out of the dark.
Back to the dirt where He was waiting
with a quiet ring, bent knee.
I did not know him.
I could not know him.
The buried corners
didn’t shake him out, but
they took my brain and
put the dark in its place.
Now, while my days sleep elsewhere,
He waits.
Back to my dolls. Back to familiar,
sclerotic faces.
Mother gave me one to paint. I chose
the sea for her eyes
and
cuspidated obsidian for her mouth.
She was a fill-in.
Mother howled in on muscle pills,
red cheeked fury
steaming the air, burning my hair from
its soiled roots! My bedroom door opened
itself out of her way, scarred from past poundings.
I dove under my bed, throwing
my rock-like doll to stand as daughter.
She never turned into an
apple-polished quail. She just stood.
I laid in yellow paint under
bed frames; thick structure.
And never gave Sclerotic Doll
a name.
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