if my lips are red.
I had avocado (it does not agree with my body).
Stroke me-
but proceed with caution.
if my lips are read.
Dickens was ******
through my nail-beds.
and is sprouting around my veins.
“Honey” me-
with the dew from his tongue and his alone:
i will open myself up freely to you,
like petals spreading from a bud-
only less graceful.
and not as Chaste.
quite ****** actually;
when my cells are fighting against a forbidden fruit.
- the alligator pear of mexico and birch pollen -
and my tongue is soaked in English verse.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
A ripening sky-
dotted ambiguously with
molten fibers--
*the sculptor’s daughter
And her flesh shavings.*
How corrupted,
the christening angels:
the sunsets they cry, and contaminants they hide.
Our faux harvest of a blessed apple,
slaughtering the whole barrel,
Ripping out their cores.
Zipped through bursts of
squints and charcoal,
inky, starless
irises--
*Dolly Misandrist; not human;
one after the other, sliced those sonnies up,
Knocked them down like chess pieces.*
Perhaps she wanders, and flees-
filled with - fire -
spilling over with sin;
perching on her
Shattered masterpieces.
A flock of birds,
ringing around the carcass,
pounced to tear apart their evening meat--
*they chased Dolly the damsel to the state border,
She was fenced in by boys and their
grandfather’s pistols.*
Cleared her throat to plead one last swan song,
but was interrupted by the scraps
of bread they threw into the duck-pond.
*The first boy shot her right between the chest-
“You shouldn’t have been such a **** Misandrist.”
Eyes-
“That’s for my brother.”
Head-
“Ladies don’t come first where you’re going.”
A speechless, frozen moment passed.
Blank stares. Open mouth. Nothing coming out.
“That *****
The trees scurry from beneath
the ocean of stars. Come Sunday morning,
the church pews are full.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
the pond is fickle and deep.
Wings graze and kiss
the bouncing drops
of silver.
Our Moon cries in a melancholic
way, and bares its quivering
lip with pride.
I wade in the intertwining vines
and the mispronounced
songs.
Death burns,
and I will peel away my skin.
strip by strip,
to the rhythm of the buzzing pond,
and beating horizon.
Swallow the slimy sun--
cheerful and running.
Death is a growing pain.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC