November rains and nothing's new:
Let's go back to writing poetry for two.
I laugh outside the echo chamber, and read O'Hara in blue.

God is gay. His name is Frank.

We've been at this for years, my dear!
So why seep into silent sludge. Ink blots
on the sole of my shoe. If not for you.
The max! The wax! The musical goo!

As you know, it's all true -
However the weather,
Dead Girls last forever.

Here is the breath.
And here are the marks left behind by bandages.

Here is where I paint your face on each shoulder blade.
I make them meet each other,
you kiss yourself.

Here are the points of silence
trapped between fingertips,
toes, the chin and chest.

Here are the secrets kept in
the small of my back.

There was a mistake made in
the Bible, and you weren't there.
The beautiful and the sublime.

There's a song in my bones and
you're singing it! We step into the
blender, and switch clothes at noon.
When the sun set, we were in
bed together. Four newborn babies:
I hallucinate the destruction of a calendar.

Bottles of wine in the grass, and
this has been the very best day!
I kiss my friends with an infected
throat, and no one minds, and we
just go on eating grapefruits.

Sticky fingers, your car was almost
stolen, and here, I swear -
you'll never have to cut your hair.

You're changing seasons, babe.
Giving in to the decay of Fall,
oh! dormant Winter drowns.
It's Spring now, and you've gone
and smothered your little garden
gnome. I'm nervous. Like Paris
before the crash, we never saw
the bootstraps coming.

I am not the girl you knew.
I am not the girl you knew.
I am not the girl you -
Touching teeth in some unfamiliar basement, you liked it, we know.
And at the diner reading horoscopes,
you couldn't help but drift back to
some racist suitor, almost, maybe.

Yes! you broke a heart beneath the
bridge, and the river was there, and
he almost fell in.

What fun! I am gnashing glass shards in my teeth, my throat so raw and I found your sister outside of a bar, shaking. Some little **** crush said he'd blow up bombs in her head, I hugged her hard, and you were flirting with the doorway.

Suppose I awoke with just enough wind in my throat to say:
I would love to eat a cake with you in June! Alone. Or July for that matter.
Though I may be busy planning other parties, so June it is.

To start, their brains are still sparking.
Neurons still making connections and
breaking promises. And really, I have
trouble with the denotaded dead as
these bodies simply find themselves
at rest, in pieces, on a piece of a cloud.
Cerulean clean - little apple alabaster.
Their flesh turns back to wax, and we light
their wick embodied skulls with little
matchbooks disguised as bible verses.
Embalmed emblems and bodies bodies bodies.
Cremation in street clothes, everything special with
a man in the oven, a woman in the wood stove.
Back to ground, in deep with the worms, and
all the tiny evil machines as ushers. Death, hm!
Is some moon rock sweat and blood blister mix,
sandalwood musk, a turpentine must. You'll trust.
Playing fast and loose with scripture,
magnetic movement, entombed. Dead bodies are
keeping check of clocks, and swallowing wrist watches,
and don't forget it. Dead bodies will be late if
they care to be. With their painted skin and
formaldehyde breakfast, they form riddles in
caskets, and what about the Egyptians?
Dead bodies have rust in their throats and
foot soles made of limestone. They take up
space in rafters, between your bed and the wall,
stained glass stained with afterthoughts, forget-me-nots.

I will wear my
mother's purple coat.
I will not cry for my
sister's best friend's father,
and wouldn't you agree?
Spring is the best time to die.

Funerals are poetry
and
caskets are cigarettes
for
sober girls.