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Worldeater Sep 2019
How do I script this reversal of time?
Rewind my spine until my heels touch my mind?

Click Twice.

Travel through the avenues of my own schisms
Dotted lines in incomplete frames...

My toes feel them out -
I wonder if I breath the same
Measured and controlled -
I wonder if I'll be the same

Orient my spirit to the currents in my brain:
            I'm in a sea
      I'm in a lake
I'm in a pond
To drown
      To waft
            To swim

How do I script this reversal of time?

Worldeater Sep 2019
Open wounds on my wrist
Arterial lines to search my brain's
A delicacy beneath my flesh...
I'm left bruised with purple hues and
Deeper wounds.

Part 3
Worldeater Sep 2019
Leave me for mulch -
Forlorn to feverish growth
It's fatal. It's decomposition.  
Vindictive, I've let it all surmise
In sermons scripted as
Tarnished seedlings.
Left it to grow in the damp
Pits of desolate scorn -
Infected throughout my stems
I pray to dissolve

Don't mourn.
Don't mourn.
Don't mourn.
Part 2
Worldeater Sep 2019
I lie in a field
Waiting for myself to arrive
The quintessence of knowing the
Depths of my soul
Immobilized - Idyllic?

I lie in a field asleep
Coupled with roots of Sycamore
Promises - I suppose.
I suppose I'm desperate to feel
Grounded within the viscerally fleeting...

I'll meet you there?

Part 1
  Nov 2017 Worldeater
Cecelia Francis
There are men
with loud voices

I've been taught
to fear since birth.

If the intermittence
of skin flashing between
two articles of clothing is
where seduction occurs

then where is the
****** gaping cloth
of a yell?

Is it in the cavernous tongueless space
of parted lips: in some silent inky
strident echoing taste
in the tightness of vocal
chords pulled taut, the strain of
raised forehead and neck veins?

There's a weight in
my chest like a weight
in his bed, heavy and
unsatisfied and
thinly veiled.

I think somehow
the look on my face
must be a pleasing design:

a familiar retraceable
state: a reminder that
I don't mind him,

I know my place:
in a small, quiet space,
in his arms when its late,
on the drip of the spit on the tip of
his tongue: a flash of flesh over pale teeth:
a site of intermittence: in a hesitation

a fearful hesitation
barthes, chord progressions
  Aug 2017 Worldeater
Cecelia Francis
What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh
  Aug 2017 Worldeater
Cecelia Francis
A *** bubbles
up and under
the shaky lid
clamped shut.

As a child,
my mother would
chide me for

lifting the lid
of rice and
stirring too early.

I was letting
out all the

But the bubbles
sticky white and
bursting over begged

to be released.

For a time,
my body was
not my own.

I boiled,
then cooled.

Lifted the lid,
scraped the sides,
and stirred.
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