On the gold prairie,
silver competes
with the dew.
Grass saws air
clean enough for surgery.
Somewhere below the graves,
a sea of oil lapping against earth.
What will happen
when the men with
long claws and downward hunger
stumble on this peculiar paradise?
Oval ounces of flutterby breeziness
string across the
marinating grass like
crystal balls.
what a brew he makes
from fog and my secrets!
I have been seen through to.
Beneath the weight of the future
blades snap.
Mechanical clouds,
the pendulum to the pit,
sink lower and lower.
Since I was born,
the threat of water has
been as a canopy above me.
My diving gear is holey.
Everything breaks down
with a promise of pain.
My lungs will fill as sponges,
and then there will be
the catharsis of pressure,
the implosion as the
weight of water lays on me
like caramel on whipped cream.
Forgive me if I’ve already posted this. I don’t mean to spam you. I lost my place in my document and I’m not sure exactly where I left off.
I sift through softness,
through the pliable belly of the moon,
to find my star,
glowing like an electric song.
How many lamps are
hidden in this orbiting bed,
a million and one possibilities
in white.
Silly days design corn mazes.
I got lost in one as a child,
melted into the corn
like butter.
Then woke up again,
refrigerated,
with breasts in my topography,
popcorn lethal to me.
Who is that child playing
at the opening of the labyrinth?
Is there anything more
frightening than entering eternity?
Yes.
Leaving it.
They carry shovels,
concrete mix.
The soil opens before them like a purse.
Flowers coagulate in the
living room you can’t see
because I have strung ten thousand
chandeliers from the foil ceiling.
The season is polished,
a wave of salt rolls over
the soil at the other end of the street
but here is nothing but
the tang of chlorophyll and breath.
Enclosed in my equatorial dress,
I am as a letter to the star,
whose power I painted
electrical in a posh home,
mixed media mural on my ceiling,
cheap imitation regality.
The ground shakes.
The scent of salt
blossoms from the door.
Tears in my pale eyes,
petals shriveling.
And still my lights do not
go out.
Oval ounces of flutterby breeziness
string across the
marinating grass like
crystal balls.
I have been seen through to.
Beneath the weight of the future
blades snap.
I am tucked in beneath my lid,
the jar lined with velvet.
Blackest black-purple
my voice returns to me
dragging shackles.
What vertebrate ghost did this?
A legacy of ice floes through
my life
High tea in hell.
They look so refined.
I close the broken window.
The wind turns back.
After the fire
ash sifts through the air
looking for something left
to land on
finds only my hollow hands.
My voice climbs over my tongue as
a weary and alien being.
My artistically rendered
silence leaks from my nailbeds.
The sky is black,
black purple,
and I am invaded.
Miniature Moon 