Parasitic queen dressed in gold and black,
we made love among hyacinth
tracts and the morning dew
then parted.

I’d thought it through but
venom proved stronger than
my ire as
memories of you wormed about;
your racing touch and
erasing much to finally burst
my head.

The larval feelings spun
themselves up in
little white silk
lies
And what wiggles out,
though formed and fed
off my mind and husk,
Resembles you, winged
and rue
hungry for a meal anew.

A bird stopped-
Mid-air, died, and dropped
With no brave heart to catch it.
While the thunder rolled
And crashed and broke
And lit the grey-green scene;
As time and sky fell as one
To split sweet sanity.

Where once I sought ambition,
I now seek only bone:
Aged fine with wine volition
And cracked and ground with stone.

This will be my final song:
With no chorus planned to follow
Nor daggers sharpened to a point
Or the fired forge to bellow.
For when no one needs a blacksmith
The brazen god’s teeth flicker
Alights the hammer’s handle
And spreads marigold flame to wicker.
The steel alone will shudder
And miss the smithy’s call
With no rage to fall upon them
To etch their egos small.

If ever once my words took flight
may this song now break their wings.
Snap the hollowed chicken bones
and scatter feathers to the wind.
As sun bakes dry the loam and silt
while tigers prey on lambs,
I find your love less
filling than
some godly preacher’s scam.

I am a cannibal.
I savor men’s fine taste
and snap up scrawny skulls;
Spent bodies left to waste.

But do not hoard your children.
Their flesh is far too sweet,
Innocently tendered and
Often curdling in the heat.

Age is my marinade,
It greases flesh like wine
Soaked and smoked in scarlet
With broken, twisted spines

And I am not alone.
Though they may feel otherwise
Since though I eat your body
The heart’s their only prize.

Do you hear me weeping,
Creeping during the night?
Sigh deep when I am sleeping
But you’re always in their sight.

I cut my teeth,
and lick my lips on your *******
in that awkward, ending light.
Our heavy breaths trade back,
and forth multi-syllabic moans
as pinpricks of metaphor
with unsure thrusts of rhyme
consume the summer, humid night
to leave us voiceless, with minds
grasping for wet, deep words.

One should be wary of too many showers;
of too much soap and shampoo.
The brutal water only bead on clean
and naked skin; after the shell
of dust and dirt and hell is wiped away.
The fogged mirror filters off
God, and leave half-finished marble
cracked and sickly soft.
When the hot water is cut and coldness
thrusts you into the light,
the air feels new and harsher
than the grime ever did.
One should beware being too clean.

My brain is a furnace burning
in a skull plated so thick in steel
you can't feel its heat but by
the back of your hand.
Stoked in a mother's breath
and father's hand, flame flickers
along spectral bands as the wick,
once taught and thickly tied,
turns to grains of ash. In the midst
of incendiary heat and blinding
doubt, beats my heart and counts
its time with spouts of
madness.

We held our mother’s funeral today
out back in the warm Spring rain.
It was supposed to be tomorrow but
Mother thought the forecasted sun
and flowers, a bright finish to
this dreary Winter,
Would **** the mood.
So to speak.

The earth was soft but the willow
tree roots fought back our shovels.
Mother sighed but said the small,
paltry hole filled with muddy water
would do for her ceremony.
But just the ceremony.

She sat in back,
the tail end of her own procession,
and intently ignored our furtive glances
to see if she was pleased.
She was.
Until the rain stopped, then
she called the dampness ‘silly’,
and left.

But  we’d already had the guests on
notice, with bereavements ready since
Mother can be quite fickle
and at times unruly so
we held our mother’s funeral today
her tears and ours the warm Spring rain.

Jam smears sticky over toast
And butter three days old.
Served in halves with tea
and smokey, indifferent eyes
While the leaves float down
before steeped and bound;
you ask me quietly
Which cup is mine and which
is yours but not just which are we.

Please do not mind my madness; it comes and goes in fits
With little thought of kindness to my hurried, slurring wit.
But if I said 'I love you,' in formulaic prose and posed
Simple answered questions: yes, or no
Moaned silent in the night on lips ruby, cheeks white,
And meter tight; would you return in grace
Your honest heart’s rebuttal or
A gilded, stoney face.

I pause shortly as I drink;
And think to remember why
I started this night in a bottle.
I had meant to get drunk
That much is clear
But having been there before
In melon-hued glasses
And sweet Southern passes,
I penned anew a poem
To find where else to go.