Tag: melancholia

  • only

    whispers doubt &
    memory these
    pushnail hands to
    rust on through &
    twistgrind bone to
    raindrop splash
    my naked face

    who cares for
    tonight tonight
    when something
    rests between
    fold & trench
    forgotten in
    butterfly dream?

    there is no love
    betangled of song

    only—

  • aether wish

    aether i wish of breath
    to slip and slip and to
    butterfly to lethe away
    drink to drift to float away
    her mouth to mouth
    of mine and sway
    with hip to lip and
    aether a wish away

  • wait here

    & all our engines have gone to rust
    or torn pages to scatter to wind
    forgotten, what your good book said

    & i wait here & i long here
    & i wait here & i long here

    & of ghost that the wrath it were
    her voice has gone to calling, now
    come o'er the rowan hills, fallen

    & i wait here
    & i fall here
    & i wait here
    & i fall—

    stop.

  • entanglements

    no more fingers
    outstretched because
    we can see our 
    only use is to please
    some illusion of touch
    arthritic entanglements
    become slender thorns
    pressed under tender
    skin

  • long trellis

    seeking betweens in blind
    i keep going back to the fog
    clouding anne’s crown
    crossroads slick long ago

    feeding ravens without words
    i was given a promise song —
    naught but fever dreams,
    it seems and now i slender
    to empty and ached aging

    long the trellis climbs

  • undertow

    what's the point?

    scrape bone with flint 
    phantasmagoric
    and toss finger broke 
    i can hear her calling
    over the wave;
    so slip me undertow
    before i wake

  • marionette

    my scrimshaw heart
    ink etched and pale
    bound in rust wire
    wound around old nails

    tired for explanations
    eyes shutter-slip click - - -
    stop.

    then comes that
    marionette walk
    back to gods’ little
    alcove behind
    her priesthole
    waiting for another
    tick of the tock

  • new moon skies

    it's easy to believe
    all the pretty little lies
    we whisper to our heart
    under cover of dark
    under the new moon skies

  • brokework

    he mad dog barked at
    walls drawing down
    he jaw chomped hard
    at cage and at leash

    with hatpin hands
    and neck rust screech
    a brokework heart
    and tinsel teeth

    dragging behind loathing
    in razor wire, unsure
    which self to throw
    to mists from peak

  • hollows

    I am gnawing at black ice, waiting to become real while taking in all obsidian and injecting it in my veins. I would offer you a taste, but I can already see your shard eyes speak and say, “Oh, I had planned to offer you mine.” I would not want your generosity to go to waste. So I gnaw.

    Sure sure, I’ll be paid in token for my taking — coin coming in kisses melting on the wind. Scant warmth, that. But enough heat for a haint, when we black ice gnaw the typic nights, I expect.

    My twin blind eyes haze over when I look to the east. Hollows, I say to none… There is no Avalon.