"ichors" poems
The dormant streets breathe weakly through
storm drains and clearways like cancerous lungs
As the humid air clings to bodies like layers of duct tape and people walk
in parks like living corpses in a cemetery, in the aimless melange of heat, exhaustion and sweat.
The grass is withering slowly as the celestial cauldron spills;
its contents red like the ****** daggers that smile in men's mouths and blending into some spun heaven metal; orange-gold. Dying concentric circles of heat sweep across the gilded skyline as lights,
like vivid ichors, flow through the veins of a dying sky.
And the air is now sweet with the smell of dried flowers and starlight and the streets breath easily.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
The world is an archery range and
Artemis' throat is a target practice.
What is this pale and moon-drenched skin
but a carcass to howling wolves —
their sorrows grow hand and grab her by the neck.
I always told myself to lie still
throughout the attack —
it'll be over before you know it,
but my lips are wounded from biting down a scream
and a carcass still weeps
long after it's dead
and my lung still bleeds
long after it's dry — lie still, my love,
because what if the calm trembles in a storm
and what if the storm brews in the calm.
Lie still, I say
but my legs weren't made to be a hunted prey's.
Lie still, I say
but my hands weren't meant
to carry the moon and all the sadness
she was ever told.
Lie still.
No, it's not only Atlas who breaks.
The world still is an archery range.
And tonight, Artemis takes her last arrow;
perch her carcass on the grieving moon —
a carcass, regardless, to all howling wolves.
a carcass — motionless;
a carcass
lies still.
And all of Delos mourns.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC