moonlight caught the top of the lighthouse
bounced of its silver mirror
its beaded tears filled my bottle
and I drank until I couldn’t stand any longer
it’s okay, boy
said the man selling fruit at 1 am
and I embraced his dead shadow

Four blocks, yet more to come
Derelict hopes are crushed by the
Perpetual, cacophonous blast of the
Somme.
My brethren wail for fears their mothers will pay them a visit.
I juxtapose my own existence in this war machine.

(I can hear them in my sleep)

My ears are ringing a ballad,
A barber shop quartet echoing;
Paradox’s that fester in the inferno.
A ticket to my ever-so soon visit,
Rage.

Am I but mere kindling to the flames of the Somme?

the shock
of bodies—
a sound
rippled in
cheetah lightening
to wings of blasted
flowers taught
red
yellow
lavender sky—

butterfly wound
festering pollened
breeze to
where your
mouth
is opened
breath
tongue
and twisted cord—

opaque bee
twirling with
opaque stamen
lit
in a wall of
rushing
waterfall—a
perfect contrast
of forgiveness

gnaw red your bone
in the aliform of dream
this

allocation of my
guts spreads lips
onto stained paint buckets
I

never meant for
us to be beautiful
adding

music
to every line
that came out
your mouth—

a moth-springing
butterfly
its

wings no longer
dusted but

dried and wasteful.

it was the
paradox of doubt
and

I cried through
painkiller night

—helium
along the tracks
squished and turned copper
sounding space scratch—
a record when listened
through some great machine where
James Taylor always hits the
high notes and matter explodes
forming the heaviest gold—us always
singing pennies.
us, remnants
kissing the core
of aging stars.

1/18/2018

i used to be sentimental,
i declare like some sort of achievement
like it is something to be proud of

that i feel nothing
nowadays.
and i do, i think

but i have always been told
my writing is analytical
corpse cold, to the point

the car's quiet in the night
and, moving to the corner
and crossing my arms

i entertain the notion of what've i done
but life doesn't mean anything
and that's the good part

i laugh but I'm not smiling
as you confirm this idea
the fields are

evil and dark
but how do i explain
i can't it's not like i have ever felt it before

with a smirk
i
play with my hair

and remember
what being a woman's
good for.