"khor" poems
Ear, to burrow in quaking chests,
pounding pink whilst sirens called and
loud whistles of graveyards
outkeep the unkempt—men, in their shawls
of brown hung thinly like spider-silk
or like apt shadows, swung deep
and knit their brow low.
Tongue, to pinching Khor,
dragged down winding crawling asphalt,
where men marched and limped on to
the serpents and salt-seas which lead them
guffawing, down and blackly sombre—
charred palate quelled creaking groans of iced-marrow;
but it bit back in fury and in mute litanies.
Nose, to pyre in cotton-burnt glory,
red-cent’s ****** odour sent all, sent many,
to swoon Mr. Moon from silver times
and to slice dawn thick with orange rind—
the kind that stung the flesh beneath
your bruised fingernails as a child, as you peeled.
Teeth, to grate and whitely brace
for cold and plunging lines that blighted
everything in vertigo’s favor. There was them,
there was me, and there was you—
but, skulls you see
were calcium's concern, as Earth, not the mother,
consumed all, and condensed became
life and breath
to
stone and mineral.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC