He Bags Them Up After

He bags them up after
he watches me give my limbs
to a wood chipper;
a test.
A Loyal Test.
A Bloody True Test.

He knows that we are gambling.
Everything is in.
Stakes are high.

Gangly arms and
gorgeous legs
hit,
kick,
scratch at him through
plastic.
It’s not that he doesn’t care to play,
he is convinced.

The taxidermy came.
Took a thousand dollars with
my useful pieces,
said he would come back tomorrow.

I waited.
He waited with me,
with my bloody mess of me.
He poured my tea.
He scented my herbs.
He kept my perfume.
He smiled approvingly at my test.

After sleep cauterized my wounded
lady,
I woke to the scent of
constant devotion hovering
around my limbless torso.
Hair brushed, breasts held
firmly in black cotton.
A smile of approval

and
limbs. Arms, legs,
kept,
stripped of death fragrance,
nails painted
with pretty sincerity.

His gift to me.

The Orange Hatter

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.

And Then (From Dead Men’s Love)

* A reconstruction of Rupert Brooke’s Dead Men’s Love

There was a Poet, just like a Woman.
And they were dead.
They did not know the sun or that
their time had served
a filthy dust.

One old day, they clung to fire.
Kissing hands.
Broken feet, face-to-face.
Bed together
above hell’s streets.

On blue lips, an empty wind
chilled. Resting
breasts against short drains, emptying
surprise from
her
eyelids.

Polly

In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.

What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.

So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!

Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!

He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but

the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!

For My Friend Who Looks For Raccoon Feces On Her Back Porch

We do not have friendship,
or handshake,
or hug,

or your banal Tupperware parties.

You do not pout your lips in
sympathy when thoughts
of
my china doll bite your cheeks.

We do not plan swing-slide
adventures
for little skinny
blonde boys
and girls.

I do not smile and nod
as silly intoxication drags
misery out of your voice anymore.

But, you are my friend, soberly watching
for Raccoon feces, while your
husband throws the TV at you.

Once, I watched with clean eyes, while his dirty
ones stabbed you
with a sharp
pint.

Your voice never drags that up when
you are sober,

you only speak about the Raccoon’s.

Lynch Law

I live angrily as
a nest keeper.  Of giant twigs,
stressed circles, cradled
meadow sprigs –

a sharp bed intrusive to Slumber-
land. A rude
carnivore bites at my tanned
leg lines.

Once, I rolled toward
nest Head,
Bed Bug…

his bullish limbs
clutched my merit,
kindred as
orange and red compass.

We slammed hammers to habit,
congested air particles with
polluted hate vomit, we
danced each other into cement,
off skyscrapers to meat cleaver sidewalks.

Until, nests became pine boxes.

Boulders rolled in,
crushed my nose into
lines of dead life, I inhaled.

With everything I had, I inhaled, as
shards of pine darted
from his eyes.
Lies followed, grabbing each arm, lifting
my body
through gray skies. Tears wobbled out mortified
ducts,
raining small crux drops

over orange-red meadow sprigs,
ambiguous  layers shed under liquid
suffering.

Now, I live angrily as
nest keeper,
whistling out  at dead meadow
straw to rope Lynch Law in,
Justice for Him.

Reaper Robes

I met her, right outside the nine-year gates
with raggedy scraggle hair ropes
and misled eyes. I ran foolishly, the way a child would, straight
into her pother

black robes. She wrapped her presence around me.
Her absent face smiled down, impishly, at me
somehow.
In shadow?
Or
in old memories, perhaps?
I knew her!

Her face captured mine, she sucked
naivety, pore after pore bled dry!
She held on to my, now, advanced young spirit and
led me
to his casket; to his
statue.

Before his lifeless image
ink-smeared my tender life, his
hollowness entombed it!

After that day,
The Reaper and I parted ways,
still her black robes never left.

I ate them at an empty table,
they walked me down a long, long aisle, silk tied,
for a replacement man.
They draped dark weight across my house plants,
my pastries,
my daffodils,
my sex,
my love.

Until one day, The Reaper appeared,
with a hand outstretched
to me. Her calculating movements told me
who! Not when, but who!
I ran foolishly, the way a scared betrothed would,

leaving my plants,
leaving my home,
leaving my LOVE,

away,
away,
away,

to the borders of life, I ran,
back turned on The Repear’s
robes, though they never
turned on me.

The robes….
those consistent black robes,
always carried consistent weight,
never dulling, fraying, or fleeing

just steady, unwavering

take
take,
taking.

Manicphiliactic

Dark Horse boasts hands
eager for night hunt, absent
of thought;
of conscience, klepto-twins crawl under
homeless sheets, spider-walking up
discarded legs.

Pretty ladies rub more than stone
members, desperate in search of these…

Yet,
Dark Horse carries its empty rubbers,
mood and flavor
Sardanapalian desires,
weaving away at rotted earth fruit, leaving
spider-silk string

bound
around stiff ankles, legs,
thighs

marrying left to right
until necrophiliac appetite returns.

 

Perfect, Perfect, June 9

June 9.

A day that every other day
wants to be.

A day that wears snowball robes
among
daffodil trimmed
avenues,

singing a knot-tie
ditty that
clanks
with balls hooked
to short,
short
chains.

A day frosted with
pockets full
of posy,

cakes layered
with ashes
and
ashes,

dances,
twirls,
smiles,

until Bride and
groom
both fall
down.

6 years pester at them.

Knock, Knock, Knocking
on their skin, crawls
under epidermal
rugs

where it reaches up,
plucks at arm hair
follicles
one
by
one

creating a trail of annoyance
on
loving arms.

The pester years
crawl throughout
their underlying
crust,
burrowing themselves
deep
within,
until old Bride and
old Groom
fall down

in despair.

June 9 approaches.

A day that no other day wants
to be.

A day that wears soiled
tablecloths among
champagne
crashes,

singing a thunder
roar
lullaby to
heart shackles
that
clank, in pieces,
together.

A day full of
frozen hands stuffed
in pockets caked

with
ashes and ashes
of the past,

aches,
pains,
tears,

until Bride
and Groom
both fall down

in surrender.

The Tolley House At Green Gate

I share a broom with Virginia
and Miriam, I
have not had the pleasure
of either of the two
Green Gate
maids,

but I know
that their knees squeak louder
than mine
and
that
elbow oil lubricates their
twists.

I can tell by
the way they leave
my broom settled
in
corners.

Its
terse whisker
stick
mocks my grip,
my sweeping angle.
I try
to lead our waltz but my
broom laughs at me,
certain of my clumsiness.

We fight for direction
over the
trite,
Tolley boards
of the old Tolley
House.

Mr. Tolley had taken a wife…

Sarah;
a one-legged chicken farm
who burst babies
all over these elderly boards, then
cleaned them
herself as ten of her children
rolled their deathbeds atop.

Virginia and Miriam must
remind my offensive broom
of Sarah.

Sarah and her discipline.
Sarah and her doctrine.
Sarah and her ten dead babies.

I think my broom is in love with Sarah.

It refuses
my suggestive
movements to clear
old dust from the floors.

I have no choice, I decide.

I toss the broom out
to
a patio
that hosted a Tolley family portrait once,

grab my very own electronic
sucking machine
and suck the dead babies
out from
abysmal,
woe coated
slits.