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roanne-qPoems
i. Evil sleeps in an orchard not far from here. The apples sweat him out. Dressed as god, the Sun watches and nods. He bleeds for them out of his own mouth. A god's mask means protection. But in time, he will **** them dry. And autumn will fall. Postures will fall. Pulses will fall, like pills, like poison. ii. A cloud forest signals the first of the shadows. Summer is nocturnal. A buttery Moon leaves the world warm and breathing. The trees stir, the stars hiccup, and Nighttime climbs onto the birdbath where it tells you all its tricks. iii. Evil blinks from a tree where the apple skulls intrude. The garden combs you through its arteries, scooping your midsummer grave. A beautiful accident closes in on itself. And then a light like milk. And then the whistling. iv. Summer whistles in the dark: The sound of Evil kneeling to the imagination undoing him. A deadly glow becoming a romance on the white fences. Nighttime draws dust away from your shoulders, translates Summer sound and says, You are your own harvest. Your madness is only there when you want it to be.
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Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
lessons from that summer
i. Evil sleeps in an orchard not far from here. The apples sweat him out. Dressed as god, the Sun watches and nods. He bleeds for them out of his own mouth. A god's mask means protection. But in time, he will **** them dry. And autumn will fall. Postures will fall. Pulses will fall, like pills, like poison. ii. A cloud forest signals the first of the shadows. Summer is nocturnal. A buttery Moon leaves the world warm and breathing. The trees stir, the stars hiccup, and Nighttime climbs onto the birdbath where it tells you all its tricks. iii. Evil blinks from a tree where the apple skulls intrude. The garden combs you through its arteries, scooping your midsummer grave. A beautiful accident closes in on itself. And then a light like milk. And then the whistling. iv. Summer whistles in the dark: The sound of Evil kneeling to the imagination undoing him. A deadly glow becoming a romance on the white fences. Nighttime draws dust away from your shoulders, translates Summer sound and says, You are your own harvest. Your madness is only there when you want it to be.
aug 2012
roanne-q
Written by
roanne-q
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
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