deadwood slips to view
grown of long hand fingers
to cling at granite grey
under endless feathered blue
it is bones these ways
there, under the burn
just a kiss away
twine knotted taut
gives over to memories
gone to flint faded wine
under gasps of sand
Tag: rewilding
gasps
unthinking
I am not thinking what you think that I am thinking and that is a fact. I bundle my thinks up nice and tight, in thick, oiled leather and lacing and push them bone deep inside. No one has asked because there are none who might care, not really, about what goes on tucked up in there.
The truth is scrimshawed along my bones, inked in ashes and kohl, under atrophied muscles wrought tangled by scars. I sing to stones and prophets, fill the undersides of my nails with soil, paint stains on my forehead, circles on brow.
“What are you thinking?” they ask.
See, finally someone sees truth as I howl in the nights, at bogarts with thorns and ghasts that prick with memories. I rend my chest with fingers and unfulfilled promises made when someone still has something to gain. But—
I am not thinking what you think I am thinking.
And that is a fact.
waiting at
careful as silk
drift rise on breeze
carry our befores
gifted back to me
this happy death
waiting a' seaashen
we wore our hearts
in sticker on
polyester sleeve
while whale bone
held us to north
and nightfall
— waiting
for ghost-trees
to give over and
bring blood home
cellophane crackling
under our feet of
cruel winters
ashen, for that is
how we lost our
homesteel skies stolen
there are days
i wish it would just
rain & rain & rain
wash everything away
down the drains &
carry us to a place
where we could
finally meet again
you could say, “hey” &
i could say, “hi” &
though we’ve never met
we could be friends
or maybe lovers
like we were before
we fell out of dream
our steel skies stolen,
some days
i wish it would just
rain.of berry and elder
of berry red and elder
i press my blood there
a thumbprint between
eye and dusk shadow
beauty as naked is
forgive this romance—
your night drawn in
fingerbones alone
i kiss you when you
dare to look away;
beat your heart closer.
i know i know
these are weary ways
to cast in cold
the frost alone
come now,
lead us walk
rose stones to
water waiting...over graves tonight
with deadwood limbs
and ash grey heart
we sing scrimshaw
over graves tonight
daring winter winds
of ripping breath away
a rime of braided rope
ever taut and untamed
salt my lips in evensong
and stolen night awayDares
I feel I am crossing liminal spaces of late — between dusk and shadow, slipping between night and day.
I’m not sure if it is the hours, or maybe it is these days. But there is a persistent tug of flux, a drawing in and release. I grow disinterested in the machinations of the embrace of doing things the same way day by day. It seems much more interesting to drift and fade, and it is a mistake of mine to expect my object to all subjects to feel the same.
Snip. Snip. Snip. A painfully slow arcade of cutting the linen laid bare before me, watching with wry, droll amusement at times as supporting threads give way to unraveled snapping instead of waiting for Atropos to come by and give a release clean.
Into the mists, then. Who dares follow? Who dares dream?
Fox cries razor through white, quickly filled in. Crows announce the edges of dark with cacophonic chatter as they discuss the next and the next and the—
Lost, who dares remain unfound?
healshake
healshake the bone
rattled with seed, me
emptyhead & healshake
blackfeather, boreal wind
my stone, my stone, my stone
dive ice of waters blue
deep into the through
healshake these bones
rattle them with seed, meat stand
i am drawn to water
to stone rising above
my winter rimes here
gone to crow to feather
myself in shimmer & kohl
a turn to the north
to the water to flow
this slipping at moor winds
could you ever hear?