In the end, all that sleeps against your fresh
youth is an echo.
After the last words slide across instant
regret, the only thing that spends Saturday
mornings with you are the bones
of an old Review.
After tonight,
just remember the way your fingers interlocked
like you figured out a combination
of perfect timing
and lust.
Just remember, that’s all it was.
First greet is at seams
that thread life to life.
She blossoms fresh blue,
nervous laughter sifts through
her eyes. Not me.
I am fog thick of red rage,
a fire smoldered by hard smoke hiatus,
stoned like rolling tonic waves.
She dips her fingers down my throat,
caressed by silence – she knows me at once.
I pour myself onto her.
I tell her how I know the moon,
how I sleep with it’s chill and
am never alone.
She tells me it’s habit, like her
laugh, that I’m addicted, I’m turning
to ashes. I say, “I don’t know if you’re a ghost of
me or I’m a ghost of you.”
She swings bright over Summer where
I plant my roots, under bed sheets
and claim the Earth as our own.
She was a kingdom,
I was in ruin.
I let loose my whiskey hot breath
on her air,
she strips bare of deliberation,
dripping thirst from her soft light
and we creak together in the shadows
of sensation.
And in the mix of time and transcendence,
frost grows over my eyelids.
I am blind.
Mouth froze,
then my insides.
She hammers at me for weeks,
heaving in heavy tumor.
She begs back for the comfort of the
roots we birthed together.
Life drops wet down my cheeks,
she drapes over me
for years,
Or is it me over her?
I wish….
I want….
The seasons have stopped.
I can’t find her blue through the fog.
I have not felt my legs in four years.
I hate months. Each carries different
demons. November is a home-wrecker.
Prancing in lives
like a horse,
with a horse,
trampling my legs,
shattering a fragile life.
He went with the moon.
A silver carriage
whisking him into the night.
I laid on the floor in
a broken heap. Expecting.
A cloud came in and took his place.
Pouring sharp gulp after gulp.
Until, questions came.
Until the bugs crawled through
my nostrils,
dragging hallucinations behind them
on chains.
I loved them. For a moment,
I loved them. But their names changed.
On a basis.
We went infrared together.
Having seizures and one night stands.
Dancing black dances.
Taxi after taxi. Until,
the cloud cleared. Left me like he did.
November was not anymore,
and still I cannot feel my legs.
The sky is dead.
A muddy sun aches in memory; an
unconscious fire, leaping
into dark waters.
Loneliness fades in deep congested
pressure, a million sea
tragedies
couldn’t lift her waste
from submergence.
Salty seaweed slowly crept down her throat,
entangling itself in soft
asphyxiation. Her beautiful body swelled
with the sea,
tides turned and turned over
purple lips in a green dress,
spitting her raw
meat shell
out into silver moon beams.
The wind stalled after striking
her cold cheek. Shiftless.
Idle in a sodden night,
offering nothing more for
life
to feed on.
So, life takes her flesh,
sacrifices her meat to
micro bacteria,
burning her bones into the
sand;
a fossil of destitution.
Red rain pounding
glass, screeching.
Red wind
screaming with her,
muffling,
burning
red blood lips.
Red man, red
flesh hammer
ready.
Heart sounds
cracking,
red egg,
undead.
Pretty red-head
swelling.
Red rain thrashing,
glass scratching
red lungs,
junkie,
red man.
Red veins try
running
away,
dirty death streets,
stiff beds
under
red beer signs.
Sweet red eyes,
pouring catastrophe,
straight shots,
her
black out
while red man
chases
his dirty veins
through
six, endless, red feet.
Her, swollen
red egg,
bottled up in vinegar
and
a dirty,
red season,
left alone
with
her blue face,
drizzling
hints
of
of a red, red, rain.
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.
* This post could be disturbing and difficult or offensive to some readers..it contains adult material and paints a disturbing image, please don’t read if you are sensitive to adult material.
I forked my eyeballs
from their sockets before
the gang
banged
away
at my fourteen aged
bones
for men
bones are not like fine
aged wine
my eyeballs bounced
around with
the pounding
hounding
hard-ons
slippery hours
later
my pig pudding covered
bones
laid to rest
while
my severed eyeballs
suffered alone
with what they had seen.
The baby’s swing
swinging emptily
swinging next to me
blankly
watching the empty
swing –
back and forth
swinging steadily
the baby’s swing
swinging melodically
listening lethargically
as it swings next to me
the baby’s swing
swinging emptily
squeaking and creaking
and looking at me
watching me
sit so emptily.
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.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 