i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

I am exhausted
with the weight of my
bones, with the weight
of your bones
in my arms.

You fell to your knees
in the dust of the road,
gathered dirt in tiny whirlwinds
around you and begged

to know why your robes were filthy.
The brightest streaks you had left
were where our tears dripped
into the handsewn folds.
You cried for your blindness,
I cried for your tears.

We sobbed to the moon—
to Diana, Elatha—
the only gods we atheists could stand;
their crescents smiled on us.
You covered your head while I
danced in the tear-stained
dirt, sandals tickling the edge
of the high road, sending
little rocks over and down
onto the sandy heads of camels

below. I laughed while
you wailed and when I knelt
to pull your hands into mine
you shrank
into your whirlwinds of mud,
crying, “Wicked!”,
hissing, “Harlot!”

You are hollow and sharp--
        not exactly hollow, but full of holes
        where your guts should be.

You are rust and cruelty,
all ancient bloodstains and missing
hunks of steel.

You are afraid of your angles
        the wicked serrations of your tongue.

You lick your own wounds
to taste blood wondering if
it really tastes like you at all
or more like the leftover bits of flesh
still stuck between your crooked teeth.

        But you don't frighten me, Bonesaw;
               your razor blade arms are nothing but home.

Photograph by Michael J. Sullivan, 2010*

Listen up, you little *****, and let me
teach you a thing or two.  See this skull here,
poised and serene?  How do you know it’s poised?
It’s dead, for Christ’s sake! The only thing it’s
poised on in the edge of this stump—“ye olde
dead tree” holding “ye old dead head.”  He had
a name, you know—Yorick—I didn’t make
that up. I knew him; good friend of my mum’s.
     This sword here could have been what ran him through,
you know.  Coulda got him straight through the gut,
and you’re all sittin’ here admiring its
craftwork.  It’s the fancy hilt, isn’t it,
the bright metal chasing its own tail in
golden loops.  Warm yellow over cold steel,
that’s what you people like—spectacle, shine—
not dust and history, like Yorick over here.
     You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?  Only
thing these candles are good for, really.  They’re
tallow—stinking, smoky fat made by Jen
on her weekends off.  She doesn’t know much
about candles, but her *****’s Special
Draft is the best mead made for this dung heap.
     Anyway, I gotta ****.  Leave Yorick
with your tips, and remember: what glitters
here isn’t gold, just paint over old age.

THEY were calling certain styles of whiskers by the name of "lilacs."
And another manner of beard assumed in their chatter a verbal guise
Of "mutton chops," "galways," "feather dusters."
  
Metaphors such as these sprang from their lips while other street cries
Sprang from sparrows finding scattered oats among interstices of the curb.
Ah-hah these metaphors-and Ah-hah these boys-among the police they were known
As the ***** Dozen and their names took the front pages of newspapers
And two of them croaked on the same day at a "necktie party" ... if we employ the metaphors of their lips.

I have never needed you
more than right now, in this very
moment, covered in blood and ticks
and grass.  You must hear me thumping,
beating my need on dead stumps that smell
of your **** and gunpowder.
I need you. I have always needed you.
Your teeth slit my fur and I need you
still. Your mouth is my everything,
the warm safe of heat dragged straight
from your lungs with a rattling wheeze.