From the top of the blizzard
with buzzards ablaze,
the reaper stands watching,
waiting for skin to drop
or lungs to fall
waiting for the right moment
to steal fingers imprinted on
the Universe,
hearts beating on the sun,
and moons kissing under the tender lights of love.
He stands waiting, in every dream I dream, where your hands are
more than a memory,
waiting for me.
She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.
He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.
She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.
Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.
Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.
July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.
Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.
Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.
He is wired for
sour fruit dessert, weaving black and blue
cables through his heart.
A stripper and his peach syndrome
parted, in him, desire from fear.
He lost.
Yet,
he can swallow rose petals better
than any absorbent
and
he steps more lucent than any
cloud walker…
I have pledged allegiance to his hands,
his hair,
his stubble shadow.
I demand his tongue
his touch,
his exchange;
where his voice spreads thick,
taste enhances,
where his deluxe firewater is served,
servants dance,
where his skin sheds to brace life,
I kneel.
If God cannot dampen my dry, callous skin,
maybe this sad Electrician can.
s2
My Lord,
I know you in language,
not
by your fingertips,
or your tongue,
or your eyes,
or your voice,
or heavy petting,
or lip smacking.
I do not know the scent of your release,
or the heaviness of your desire,
or the longing in your sighs,
or the length of your reach.
I do not know your grip,
your push,
your gasp for a breath,
your touch,
your taste,
your hunger.
My Lord,
I know you in vocabulary,
in depiction.
I know you in daydream
where
I have felt your limit,
where I have forfeited myself
in the aroma
of your pleasure,
where I have met you at the top
of the mountain,
the highest peak,
where we have gasped for air
together,
fingers entwined,
legs braided,
excreting deliquescent
adoration.
My Lord,
I speak in daydream,
lost in lust language
where I know you.
Miss Red Jacket
layered
red threaded
protected
found four chances
dug them
out of the sand
distinct
diamonds
four different
slants
similar
polar opposites
yet
parallel
four unique prints
inked
on
black and white
printed
nearly tattoo’d
she chooses a rock
dug out of the dirt
in
needle park
veined purple
swallow’s grandma’s stew
grandma’s eyes
grandpa’s semen
anything
for black tar
fire spoons
and
a blanket in Needle Park
Miss Red Jacket
misses
firm
athletic
blood tubes
that act as an overcoat
laying
over layers
Horse pipes have
wrapped her
soft spot
for
the last of
their life time
he
with blood tubes
plucked
from dirt
in needle park
a diamond
uncleaned
uncut
melting banknotes
wages
melting mud
puddles in
metal necks
skinny little pricks
sucking
mud puddles dry
pushing
pushing destruction
deep
into her
thick red
shield
pushing
pushing red threads
to distress
unthreading
unravelling
leaving
a naked woman
with nothing
but a
dirty
rock
That fool of a Hurricane came along
wearing her precious
golden wig
her bitch stamp
tempestuous temptress
twirling
spinning
violence through
internal bricks and boards
I am a carpenter
a blood sculptor
The Queen
my masterpiece
in matching
patterns
nailed to the walls
my precious dynasty
garnished with
parallel features
inside and
out
muscles and brawn
My King
mixed with this
destructive
maniacal
windstorm
she rushed him
in her
giant waves
into her vast Ocean
her wet white body
then ripped and yanked
at my prized
creation
jerking
wrenching
until defeat ambushed
her
from behind
she resigned
and I was left
with my masterpiece
to clear the clutter
the debris
watching the Ocean for the
return of
my King.
Raw behind the rib cage
bulging
ready!
Jaw extended
– attack –
to tear flesh
to expose
protected
delicate
four-chambers
for consummation
thick
red
life
quenches desire
for life to resume
thick
red
life
spreads itself across
empty
longing
a blanket
for a barren
wasteland
for nothing more
than
a
product
of a Hoarder and
an Unprotected
Heart.
The lampshade walked in the house
covered with dirt and cobwebs.
It had spent a few years in purgatory,
with tools, hoses, and rusty chains. It
infiltrated
my nostrils with the hardy
scent of automotive oil.
It walked out the day that he did. Hand-in-hand,
they stepped on clouds, right over my head they
stomped! The heavy weather came
pouring down on
my head. Lightning struck
me so hard that I couldn’t
move or breathe for…two years at least!
I just stood. Struck into that moment.
Recently, I saw him walking back. He
noticed that I stood still; staring in his direction.
He took my hand and guided me out from
beneath the clouds and he sat me down on the couch.
That was when the lampshade walked in. Covered
in the filth that I stared at for so long.
I pulled out the vacuum and sucked the
grit out of the shade, polished it and handed it to him.
I watched him set up the base of the lamp and helped
him search for a brand new lightbulb. One had been
sitting around for just this occasion.
If my words scare you away, then before you go please drag me down the hallway
and cut out any major functioning organ.
Just throw it away! I will not want a heart that beats for
the past. I will not want a digestive system that
wants to puke at the thought of digesting.
I will not want a brain to give me memories, nightmares,
hopes, fears, daydreams and fantasies.
Mostly, I will not want this heart that beats for
the things I want the most.
So, if my words scare you away from me then, before you go, would
you please, PLEASE, drag me down the hallway and cut out
my heart?
maggiemaeijustsaythis 