If We Could

talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am

just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas

on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips

because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset

and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
for juicing

individually

without each other

Take Me

Your moth-cloud dreams in,
we went up like soot,
soaked in gasoline.
Yesterday’s thick ejaculation
mixed with a bundle of
memories,
take me,
tell me!

Every day, the body gives up the ghost,
sui juris. Take me!
White purse.
Sweet essence under strange sheets.
Your cotton terrorizes me.
I wrap long, and split,
I’m weak,
I’m weak.

One day grows under soil,
feeding on a seed.
Where the Earth wants to plants us,
we harvest what we reap…

and clouds speak in tongue,
a simple, little speech.
I know I’ve begged before,
but take me.
Take me!!

The Sun Chases The Moon

I spend a thousand blinks on old memories.
Each taste like cocaine
broken teeth, pressing
truth against my cheek, a cold shock

like this one – 
crying on the beach, sleeping in empty sea shells.
My mother eats her hands,
choking on emptiness,
on regret –  I understand,
then –

fireflies above my nose.
Bathing with my naked sisters,
collecting our shadows full
of sea water – and with a rush of the moon
a tip of years comes rushing back
and I choke, not on emptiness
but on regret, and I understand
then –

it’s the same sun that passed away,
roasting flames with me on
Sunday; and what does He do?

He moves.

 

Stillborn

How many times I’ve seeped through ivory bed sheets,
making love to the flavor
of curiosity,
to unmade memories
while moons sullenly sleep.

Full-wings spread beneath.
I am safe, cradled in neon
comets, exploring my own armoured body.

Here, he does not resist!
He lunges mercilessly to position,
white flags his army. What can he do?
He is near extinction and
I am a gaseous cloud awaiting creation.

His skin tastes like metal leaking from Niagara.
We create salicylic time together.
We boil the blood of every mother combined
and burst the planets into alignment.
My pale body shifts from empty to
alive, swollen with revival

I shift back to the moment,
the dark air,
the damp night…

with aching fingers I outline his heavy, warm shadow,
my galaxy multiplies by zero,
vastness torn…

I am stillborn.

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.

The Ghosts Are Raining Tonight

The thunder is rolling in and
I am on the floor,
waiting for the black to
explode into something more.

The piano is warm, every key stroke
lights up the room,
outside strikes of light
and his perfume

lingers after his feet.
I live for the carpet that he danced
across,
his silent promise to
haunt me

through the storms
that warned me of him
before I was born.
My birth was a golden eruption
of time

that took heartbeats from my arms
and placed them
in puzzles,

in God’s masterpiece.
His Masterplan.

If I were a man, I would have taken them
back, painting a home
in the deep strikes
outside
of the waves of thunder and
light,

but I am a woman and I am
a deep rolling drum roll
floating above the rumble,
resting my head on the outline of his
chest,

breathing in between a memory
of heart beats,
shoving the rain out of
this room
and back into the slick black piano
keys that wrap his warm
arms around me.

When You Come In Three’s

I have more than I am worth
when you come in three’s .
I sleep like a fish on a hook,

but only on the outside.
Inside, I am writhing with
want,
need,
gripping my thighs on to everything.

It has been one year and a hundred days
since I saw your fingertips
but I keep that to myself.
Time has stolen us longer before.
Remember?

Remember those black days?
Remember cigarette ash stains at the bottom of
beer cans, while a thin man drummed
and you drove us away?

We never went anywhere, but to sleep.
I took the backseat
while you drove off into distance,
into caves.
When I awoke, I found myself alone,
but I found myself,

and you,
came back to me in three.
Your fingertips teasing me while I sleep,
like a fish on a hook.
Outside, but
you are in.

Blackbird Song

I have let callous hands
unzip my heavy breath,
free me of metal,
cold restraint.

I have talked to wind
chimes short of frost,
of shine, and let
windy hands slap falling
leaves off
their easy limbs.

I have laid in blue bed
skies, covering mortality
with surging white mass;
pillows for eager
eyeballs. I popped each blue ball,
socket clean of collagen,
of cell, blackbirds emerging,
fleeting,
feeding on my sight.

What they must have seen!
What images must be coursing through
silk ebony feathers!
It is, surely, enough to take
a blackbirds
sight,
enough to pluck wispy wings
from a torrid
feathered friend.

Dinner With The Snake

Dammit! I’ve run out of talent.
My shoulder blades went with the
postman. He took the world
out,
to a yellow and green Earth.
Before he went,
he dusted my back, made everything possible.

So, I went, then,
to the bags and the boxes. I unzipped,
ripped,
tore in
to avoidance, packaged away
in the belly of a red snake.

Before I sliced him through his
happily ever after, I built a
midnight picnic
on a grease infused concrete.
We drank everything
red,
light,
collected.

We had beautiful words
through midnight and on
till dawn. The snake rolled
his yellow eyes to the back of his throat,
swallowing
any chance he may have had to strike back.

I leaned in with quick penetration,
slitting
the long, frail line of happiness

then,

misery was back. And with it….brilliance!

Frozen Pond

I have no room of my own. My carpet
was eaten by a vacuum with cold, blue
eyes.

It was January when kitchen plates
shattered. My diamond party,
shattered.
My calm-moon baby,
shattered.

I took her down stairs,
three times to
the snow.  We walked.

To an icy snow pond. Cold
like those eyes we left
three flights up, alone, with a balcony
and needles filled with snow.

We did not skip.
We did not hold hands.
We held breath and
walked into the pond.

I only had two hearts
because she had
one
of her own. Deep pink.
Beating on her own.

Deep.
Deeper.
Through sharp water cold.
Piercing cartilage, straight
through bone.

We gazed through crystal, an open
body,
singing laws of the nameless,
her,
freezing within me.

It is May now, plates have been cleared.
Cuts have scarred
deeper than bone. We are froze in that pond, but I have only one heart now.

I am alone.