I've heard that my body is a temple.

that disciples once traveled through, they used my ribs
as stairsteps and slept sound in the soft
ventricles of my heart, I've said I used to be soft
and this is mostly true, mostly lies,

you can lay a  f i e l d  o f  c o t t o n  
over  concrete  or cover  granite  in
s  i  l  k  but that does not change the
consititution of what lies underneath
and I have been cold
a bear trap constantly reset, I have been a wolf masquerading
as a girl, slick bricks of ice wrapped in wool

there has been hell in this holy city
and I have been raging through the rooms
scattering caltrops in the halls, wrapping widowers
in smoke, steaking kisses, slamming doors, wreaking
havoc where there need not have been--

Have you seen me? call the troops, have you seen me? fists clenched
temple burning. A chest full burning brambles, hot marble walls.
there is hell in the holy city.


hell.

swallowing
everything.
existence is merely the illusion of light inside a void
a narrative projected onyo the screen of darkness without
restraint
dreams are swallowed by the void and
make love to it
the children of souls and minds and nothing
*******
of hate

non-euclidean
stairsteps
breaking the sky
too strange to be horrible
yet too horrible to be
real

and so it falls apart
our projection shown for what it is
threadbare and disintegrating
revealed physically in our bodies
like everything we believe.

the desert of the real is upon us
and we are drowning in thirst.

The morning begins with another bottle. Her
broken mirror has already spoken its lies,
crucified her  with a stranger's face invading
her bathroom.
Later
the stairwell does not echo her footseps
as she descends, carefully, one foot, then the other,
the exact placement of each step thoughtfully
considered, planned out and
executed with a grace that is almost
Procrustean.
She leaves no shadow behind herself, throws
away words into the deep green silence.
They fall.
I could get a job, she tells herself,
listening to the silence of her footsteps.
I could blunt the stings of honeybees,
gather the nectar of drones.
Her feet sink into the softness of the stairsteps.
At the bottom, she opens the locked door of the mailbox
hugs junkmail to her breast.
Her fingers leak tiny drops of blood
over the sealed envelopes. Her mouth
is full of dust. She eats her memories.

I really liked Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I Got Live in my Tummy
by the Ohio Express
Nice is Nice and Green Tambourine
by the Lemon Pipers
Simple Simon
by the 1910 Treatgum Company -

They all has sorta sweet jumpin' melodies compared to that of sing-songy hard rock
I liked the bubblegum rock of Jessica Simpson when she was in her heyday singing-wise
and as far as bubblegum soul I liked the Jackson 5, the Sylvias, the Jets, and the Five Stairsteps, and Cubie, especially their song Oh Child.

Yeah, teenagers back then - I thought they were both charming and happy-go-lucky and not that much into the mournful dirges of my own generation like Let It Be and Hey Jude by the Beatles.
All this war and economic oppression is bad enough as it is.
Why add insult to injury with depressing music?