The heavy heaven horse
headaches

The infant cinemas

The invisibly tragic
frostbitten
palmist…

Go on, son

Toy blood teething in the church of my ear

Sleep was just here. That, and being godless. I try to mourn.

Eat nothing, ghost. Watch with an angel the earliest body horror as hallucinated by god’s mother. Point out to me on shadow’s brief map the dot of my burnt sleep. Sing to your father three safe words per image. Deadname yourself in front of touch. I want to age and to not be loved.

My clothes burn in the dryer. No one is drinking. Hurt mice turn dreamside up to sigh footprints away from a naked garden. I flicker motherly through sight’s obsession with possessing my eye. Your elbow clicks. Your elbow clicks and it’s still genocide. Forget the spine that moans my son to sleep. We have to see this angel getting sick on a birthmark.

film 5

Each creature in heaven thinks it's the only creature in heaven looking for god. I itch at night with the short life of my skin. In a world without touch, I am sleeping you with my hand. Anyway, I want to say I'm sorry to my mother and my father for keeping them awake. For making them read this right now.

Even loss
gives up

No god called me into this poem.
No god
calls me out.