Migration as a Swallow


We are one at soliped
of love and bend,
  of low and sliver
In roar of distance,
knuckle lock existence
tears of a small proud child
a woman into womb
torn to open wound
remembering his eyes
his laugh, his soft song
longing of never land
goodbyes,
to swollen hot earth
  to the dry of my eyes
birds flying young
to make a Swallow
branch here
in the old songs
of the south.

He wants his honey in lace
and combat boots.


A hip so smooth it burns like
whiskey going down,


and dreams that spell
like perfume
when he lights her cigarette
and dives into never-land.


she wants a fair fight
a fighting chance.


This is an equal opportunity
my space,
Coxbones and ashes.

Never Play With Your Food

Warning
This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.



Fire hoops are for circus dogs
and astral planes are fueled by
groovy Astro-knots

come here

I have an unreachable itch
and I need you to scratch it


tenderly,


until it stops bleeding.


Nine and 1/2 weeks
looks like Hans Christian Anderson


in drag


where a heart still calls 911
off a bathroom wall


for a good time,


where death

wears tassels
and paisley,


and I scream your name
in quinolyl fairy tales.

Every life,
a history crafted
from memory
and oblivion.

The forgotten,
misplaced,
and excluded
have a voice.

White spaces
on a printed page;
emptiness
between
notes of music;
missing children;
cold loves;
dead comrades...

Silence
speaks aloud
when we
quiet our souls
and listen.

Stories
we don't tell,
but know,
saved within
the labyrinthine,
lost libraries
of the heart.
  - mce