what have you done with my sister,
the other burnt charcoal white moon
from the same pear-shaped room
where I flew out like a bald bird
singing O love love be all mine.
Her life would have been mine;
her first cry would have woken the mother
in an iceberg, let alone you; her songbird
twittering of notes calling me sister sister
would have echoed through my bedroom;
if only the night queen loved her baby moon.
But mother, your night never needed a moon.
It was lit up by bottles and cries that weren’t mine.
I went into the wood, into the witch’s hutch-room
of black air, blacker than all of your hair, mother!
There I lay awake holding the soft form of a sister
who had gone to sleep like a sweet milk bird
nested inside all this love, my tiny bluebird
of a sister, my…
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I ate you like the black spot of the moon
splitting the silence
and dissolving the quietness
in the peaches and apples,
I asked your thorn too
with an ebb blooming onto my eyelid
softness cracks, butter lips
Jupiter, Mars dancing
I ate you still, coating myself with wax
I see you behind the slick cotton sheets
where memories slap my tongue
I see you, Yes…I do.
I thrive and wrap and surrender
my soliloquy white silence
in the flash and soils
and I see still myself sinking deep
into your coconuty eyes.
A conjuncture of Aurora,
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
They have come to watch me unfold,
sweaty dinner guests with gold lorgnettes.
I, a tigress imprisoned by a glass cage,
devour their lambs and spit red poetry.
Over the soup course they eye me closely in smokes,
horny widowers with stubby little cigarettes,
I, a dahlia rising out of the giant vase,
pluck their hairs and assemble sad history.
After wine they gossip through my earlobes,
bored mothers with their stuffed marionettes.
I, a blue moon squatting in a loveless cave,
kill the bats and begin a new story.
Originally published on December 21st, 2015 on my old blog.
I miss how you held me
Vowels touching consonants.
The way your hands
Slipped commas across my lines.
Now I notice you forgetting
To dot the i’s and cross the t’s
Even on important words,
And I sit here and wonder
Why you forget to proof read.
He wrote stories. Stories about people who didn’t write their own. It became an obsession. He wanted to write about them all, but he was nothing but a mere mortal. He lacked time.
He swore an oath. An oath to new gods and old, an oath to Mother Nature, to the universe itself. He swore an oath to Reason.
“If you only give me time, I will write a story about everyone who do not write about themselves. Every single one of them, and no one else. Ever.”
You will be given time, Reason said. If you succeed you will live forever. If you fail, I will take it all back.
The pact was sealed. He wrote. He wrote until he had written about each and every one of them.
Everyone but one. Himself.
Never had he written his own story, so his story had to be written. As he…
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