Aislinn and her brother
holed up by the river.
She says, “I feel funny,”
as he pours her another.
The wind shakes the ramparts;
the vinyl house flitters with ominous slithers.
It’s cold, but that’s not why she shivers.
Her head softly sways to the beat of the drum that is
smashing and ripping the walls of her lungs.
The garter emerges with ravenous fervour -
sinks its teeth into the flesh of her thigh, as she hums
a lullaby.
A blaze erupts to the left - there’s a flash in his eyes -
and she closes hers tight,
for she knows that tonight
that what’s left of the white -
will be lost.
There is no coming back from the dusk, after this.
Stooped by the water she scrubs the stained satin -
all frantically achingly -
but her efforts are lost amongst rust-coloured memories.
All the limbs of the lamb have been severed sadistically
and he’s tossing them into the fire.
There is no use in running from it;
the web has been spun
and sewn into the veins that bind
each waif-like wrist.
She knows now what she must do;
so she snatches the torn torso,
and with lamb tucked to *****
leaps longingly into the blistering bright.
It feeds on the tenderness – like a leech in her heart.
And she closes her eyes,
for she knows that last night,
what was left of the light
was lost.
It will be the last night,
but there is no coming back from the dusk, after that.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
When it glows -
it glows golden
tracing origami folds
across the cotton sheets
that we bought that one day
when the rain poured down
and my hair clung to my face
and you had forgotten your coat,
but we walked anyways.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
I have used up all my tokens
and squandered all my pardons;
all that’s left is tarnished pyrite
and a jewellery box for two.
For I will tear your heart out
and feed it to the coyotes;
you may be the one for me,
but I’m no good for you.
As the field runs crimson
I’ll proceed to crack your spirit.
I know that this is foolish,
but love - this is all I know.
If the moon would make a bargain
on the dust that seals up fractures,
I would strip my backbone
reaching out to make it so;
I would mend each tiny crevice
- plant hydrangeas in the darkness,
but without a new foundation
it is all still frail and makeshift;
and each compounding weight is
all crushed-guts and shattered-statements.
Again we’re set a whirling;
we can’t recognize our faces.
The strongest tree is only paper
and my convoluted nature
is just a fallacy I’ve built to house,
my fear of what is true.
So, we’ll dance until our knees split,
you’ll repeat that we’re a unit
and as I kick the chair out
choke a final, “i love You.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Amidst staggered breaths
my fragile frame converts to dust.
Oak entombs the ashen ruins
of a long awaited
Us.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC