angels speak from my open wound where the light leaks out and the
blossoms in my mouth
cut my tongue the way needles bled my skin for art. the
dregs in the teapot remind me of
every twist behind the praise and so I down the lot,
flicking my tongue to catch every
heathens are better hydrated than their priests; but
in spite of flags the ocean tides remain outside any
jurisdiction and the moon has left me parched and salty. I’ve never
known a filthier heiress.
lo and behold!
man is inadequate after all. in fever, my punctures point me to the
nexus of bone and brick; so I prepare myself for the
play a chopin nocturne in anticipation. in the neon glow I downed a
quasi-cocktail and thought myself a
spare me from whatever it is, I pray, strip me of my carbon
then thatch me with stalks of wheat. when
ulysses swallowed himself still he was the
vision of a
wayword seraph. if I use the
xylem of the birch tree in place of gauze, perhaps this
yellow flesh would grow scabs of moss, a pond,
zooplankton and algae – the makings of a universe.