seasonal

The sandstone edge beneath my feet is floury dust,

that’s craving only water.

I tighten the weak muscles in my core,

hoping to stay strong and

hoping I lose my footing.

In the summer it was firm.

The sun ran through my blonde hair,

and past the curves in my skin.

My shoulders were soft and I dressed in carnation,

billowing and light.

A hot breeze caught beneath my wing,

and placed my toes centred on the lip.

It’s getting cold now and,

the leaves are turning.

They slice back and forth as they fall off the trees,

the wind urging their ears.

Forcing them into sticky black corners

where they will fade to brown and begin rotting.

The precipitation threatens paralyzation.

Heavy clouds will fire off ice bullets,

forcing the earth to dance.

they fought

I hate humming houses with quiet families

I prefer the throaty chords pushing up vomit

while I am serenaded by

smooth hits of shattering splinters smashing

I prefer

my ear to the floor

where sounds are muffled and

they dress in itty bitty flowers

to watch snakes whipping dishes and

applaud the waves of broken shards

eyecontact

her face felt like silk

on the real housewives of slab city

carrying a mouth full of dimes

in a plastic bag

and a blocked airway

her face felt like ecstasy

a handful of mouth dripping

grey wool suits counting

posters falling off the wall

when the clock strikes midnight

her face gave me energy

choking

mouth swollen

arms woollen

perfect timing

pu$$y Power

I have dead and stale insides

liver rotting from

too much drink

my blood is black clotting

circulation has ceased

 

my lungs collapsed from the smoke

breath rings out in

broken gasps laughing at the

sick joke

 

 

my glorious pussy

it keeps me going

the lines of fertility and sex

my sparkling symbol of femininity

my pink palace of

life or death

 

the punch line got lost in

falsehoods and pride

I want to press my sticky fingers

consensually inside

 

until they stop laughing and

realize

the girls are getting sick

realize

there is no one to blame

if they keep passing left

it will eventually come back

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

feast

her heart wasn’t steady

a ship in a storm

your constant tugging of doubt

porcelain in versace heels

shining and talking politely

medication and daddy issues

is this what could have been?

 

dress never wrinkled

reasonably educated

a muse for your artistic endeavours

manic

pixie

dream

girl

 

shes falling and

grasping on bodies and trying to get back up

tripping and slipping and

holding onto the warmth of blood to blood

 

spaced out

close to death

close to pain

raw throat

wishing she could go back to those times

slamming on the cement

in the bathroom you are trying to stop her

knuckles bruised

bleeding and blacking out and bleeding

not back there

she cannot go back there

you wont have it

 

matters are tough

and feelings  are sharp

shallow pangs

you feel nothing

she is rotting

flies on the meat

swirling and feasting

 

 

 

winding 

Inflatable dreams at needle point aching to be popped

The angry pro stitchers fingers are getting sweaty grasping at the tiny needle

Their milk crates are dented from constant pressure and continued sitting

 

Thick dreams at night with orgies and oozing glitter

The stiff buttons are hard to press

Yet so satisfying to touch

And take-out fries are never the same as crisp virgin ones

Mouths salivating at the thought

Anxiety builds and the glitter orgy ends

 

Run your hands on the picnic tables getting as many slivers as you possibly can

Slur your words from the pain of the wood chips embedded in your skin

Wooden floors drip with blood

An endless search for the first aid kit

Iced hands that feel as heavy as blocks of wood

 

Those cigarettes are eaten for 20 dollar bills and the party begins to pick up

Grayscale nights with a bossy little personality to match

Crisp floating memories weighing heavy on your chest

your head

and your back

shards

I sit in the ladies changeroom again and again

cursing the broken glass in my fingers

when I grab something the wrong way

pain shoots through my hand

but I can’t find the shard or the invisible pain

 

I want blood

not this tiny sharp intruder that hurts when I twist

I have this glass in my finger

hiding me deep in the changeroom