Blare of the Birds

Breathless;
shaken;
craving the crown of torn clothing
and scarcely blanketed
In ethic - by the usual.

And this is glory-
this is breaking ground at sea-level.

opening caverns of rolling waves,
grave cries -
a crisis of confidence
and broken, gleaming bone.

Soft spoken lies
and for a second
I am in their grips
until light warms cold skin
and erases the memories of my arms

The signs of morning
break through a late-bloomed hour
And fall like rain
Into my eyes.

*Published in 2008

Your lips pressed to my ears
are wild bats
hissing
and biting down on this feral birth -
the sounds of your words like ragged roots.

It’s like clinging to the faucet,
full of ravenous thirst,
and trying to pull the drops out with your tongue -

the water tasting warm -
all dirt and growing grass,
turning green
the mouth it fills -
enraging a dry desire
and satisfying nothing.

I am frantic in thie new skin
that gapes around my smile
when,
somewhere,
there is your speaking.

The veins in my eyes move, suddenly damp, to you.

And there is another ringing of reaction in me
from your fingers around my throat;
my spine -

Or from the religion I feel from your touch: Pale and angry.

I gather my muscles and pile them into your hands
and pour away the rest.

*Published by Maverick’s 2011 Compendium in December of 2011: http://maverick.whisperingcoyote.net/wordpress/?tag=compendium

the bridge at the back of my neck
bends
beneath my brain
and its’ nest of veins
that howl themselves out
and close like catacombs -
small and damp.

lying beneath this perfect pixilation:
your pores in their rows
that, once peeled from me, are put away
and are heard as they bay for me
all night, in the next room.

my back aches where it lies on the mattress
and the arches of my feet are peeling off.
still, I’ll stand on them
and somehow soon
reach the corner you cry in.

*Published by Maverick’s 2011 Compendium in December of 2011: http://maverick.whisperingcoyote.net/wordpress/?tag=compendium

Sideways veins, like wine bottle countries,
bruise and face east -
gurgling,
drowned in Ophelia skin.

Tender white,
I am unkissed and aligned to perfect -
both arms overturned through the water.
Warm and hidden away
from the air
that settled into the lines around my mouth.

Gone under,
sunk like morals,
I bend to the weight of wailing -
a kind of godless relief.

Apples lower the branches overhead -
full and closer to me,
bending the grass on the banks neaby
with sunny seeds that chip away my teeth.

I move like rotting glaciers around the curves of throats,
sweet fingers travelling around the jaw - across a dry mouth
that dies, grinning blindly up into some kind of sun.

*Published by Psychic Meatloaf Journal in April of 2011: http://www.psychicmeatloaf.com/

He’s growing sad -
Reloading in the dark basement,
crowded in by crumbling boxes and olive-green curtains.

He’s been assured of his rebirth.
So, spoiling the air with the stench of blood
means nothing.

The taste of wind and sand howls in his mouth,
even as he stands here
mutilating himself and muttering that once,
though a long time ago,
days were longer and easier to live through.

*Published by Psychic Meatloaf Journal in April of 2011: http://www.psychicmeatloaf.com/

Today, while it was still warm,
I walked for hours in the sun.

I imagined that my arm
was elbow-deep into your bones -
the brittle white cage that protects your pulse.

I broke the shell of you -
pulled at the cords and squeezed them between my fingers,
tangling and tearing any fiber that would be frayed.

I tired their loose ends back together
and lingered in your cavern,
carving into the walls
any words I thought beautiful.

I imagined that your blood was slick and orange -
full of pregnant seeds.
You: A pumpkin I was harvesting.
And I felt warm and healthy.

I imagined you,
rotten
and melting into the dirt
beneath my feet.

*Published in December of 2010.

Kiss my collarbone goodbye.

Cut, crisscrossed, against its ridges
and, for the last time,
engrave your teeth on my skin.

Burrow them under my blood vessels
and tear the feeling from my breast.

And when you’re finished,
lick the taste of me from your lips,
slow
and try to birdcage it in your brain
so that, someday, you can sit
and listen to the memory of me sing.

Lift your head from the prospect
of my final harvest
and there will be the face of my affection
for you -
hollow,
and watching your appetite end.

*Published in December of 2010.