i am an ugly sweetheart
be loved by me
and ******* sticky ginger warmth
spiked pleasure spice

dad’s numb lips
two bruised slugs comatosey cozy
glued onto a paper-mâché head.
lips the delicate hue of grape skin
tinted by self-asphyxiation.

his wet mouth became unexciting so I rested my head on his chest
on a wine-blemished button down
intoxicating me.
the blotch soon wore off onto my neck
a small patch bitten reddish purple.
speckled flesh–a stamp of lust.

his universe existed in an 8oz Styrofoam cup.
a cough syrup medley shimmering violet with needle-head fizzy stars.
sip, swallow, spent.
he made his galactic purple potion perish.
and in this way he was God.

a baby was born
a seed gorged out of a plum
wailing in a thin sheet of sheer mulberry plastic.

we were made good for lavender stacks
weaved into flowering quilts
warm enough for a peasant foot.  

you are the royal dye of Joseph’s coat of many colors.
I am the artificial tinge of a grape flavored popsicle stick stain on a bathrobe.
what if Joseph wore a bathrobe?

rotting plum for a knee
you kiss it ripely
– a sunset sickly blooming

clementine,
he pricked your skin
fragrant and newborn
his fingers tainted flowery zing
to him,
clementines like a thursday dream
creamsicle gleams
clementine,
you are well
a throw of a coin
a chill of a moan into the wishing well
for you tinyclem
i gather your peeling petals in my palms
perfumed sweet
my sweet clem

to my daughter heart
settle down without settling
she is bruised and wild
a child beating within herself
i am my own mothering broom
sweeping strayers from my heart's moons

steel wool woven into my tendons
pricking stringy veins
in vain i wore you
steal me some wool
for a sweater too scratchy for my pink skin
steel wool on a kitchen sink
sanding my baby forearm pink
stringy veins leaky weaky
making stained sweater splotchy
your lipmarks my hipmarks our ripmarks
thank you kindly for a lovely sweater cheri
i'll wear it till my pink ripens raw rotten cherry

salvage your heart
minced in a porcelain saucer
for tea time is nigh

a cordial matter
for those of pin cushion affections
and for the self who is tended to as a
lazy laced love
in concentrated steeped weep

she is porous and kempt
underneath seven layers of tunneling veins

the first chronicles birth to end birth
her cycle
regular load
warm rinse
tumble dry

the second spoons out perverses
honey drizzle on her sacred bell
all for a man to dine and dash
Christ died for her sinful pleasures

the third cultivates fear of yellows
caution, wet floor
your father's skin three days before expiration
lemon lozenge in baby's gorge

the fourth is paralysis
in sleep in speech
in speep in sleech
in in in
in slurry sleep in
in snory speech

the fifth tickles her eyelashes
soft legs soon to amputate
wishes many a wishes
self-ful sacrifices

the sixth weighs a wagon and a mule
which will carry better?
her only baggage is a clove of garlic
a wooden axe
and birthday twine

the seventh encases in a web
a black button estranged from mothercoat

she is beneath this button coin
a porous sponge-doll
gowned in sheer satin night
she is kempt after all