Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
Ichor
Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
opticon
theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind kill beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
Replace
old blood
Regicide,
Warm
running
red
over
Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
White emaciated pale weathered withered
wothered wondered want I want I wont ...
A L I L Y S T A N D S
In v a n i t y v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
Look how it not dies in my hands.
Look
I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...
When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
River
run red
with
orange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
a
l
l
To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.