A world of color is rich,
is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.
What I need is a glass of hot pink,
an elixir of glowing purple,
a tincture of pool blue,
languid and electric.
My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale
on my bedside table
while a documentary on contemporary
art stabs me in shades of black and white,
Sound muted.
Clamor clatter calamity
a huge purple spill
generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.
I am an absence of air.
Paris writes me telling me not to come.
Many things have fallen
into the gaping O of love.
My sick senses stretch like a violin note over
a ghostly concert hall.
Halls are caverns.
I have a hall inside my city
And he waits there.
He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,
I the suction of quicksand.
This is my Imperfect hour,
Negative ideas multiply with negative space.
My crotch is steam.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember that I am a child in this world,
Trafficking in pain.
Am I your neighbor?
Will you scorn me?
This is not my finest hour,
Thoughts encrusted with sin
Crotch raging and wet.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember I am a child in this vast ageless world,
Writhing in ecstatic agony.
What did you feel on your wedding night,
When you realized the black terror of earning your
Scandalized neighbors?
A salivating sun
licks a sailboat lost from harbor.
What do I know about submission?
All steel and no magnolia.
Eloquence runs from me.
From my rib you can take a war.
What nation can be fed by my falling eyelashes
that this fluid angel warps around my form?
Wrens build subdivisions in the sky blue earth lid
A mirror to my own gridlock of houses,
land with sharp corners.
To be free to be freewheeling,
with nothing to fear but sharper teeth and
gravity
is a life I do not wish for.
God weaves seasons in rotation.
In soft, silky, silver skeins.
Prosperity is a blanket of grass.
The verdant scenes of fear.
He longs for us,
Price my sorrow and enter me bleeding.
The devil is in the trees feeding off
birds and butterflies,
his grim business shattering in silver teeth.
God is in the trees spinning webs
Soft, silky, and verdant like a blanket of grass.
Spiders fear him.
He longs to draw me to Him,
to slip his gentle fangs in my hurt and anesthetize me,
suck out my misery and take it into Him
bleeding for me.
There is an impossible blue countess
leching in my fear mongering back yard.
See the heartbroken morning writhe in chains.
Noon is a brutal master.
Lovers are knives,
moan low in noon light.
Cold is curious-
Travels everywhere
Like this royal blue nobility of consciousness
pontificating on cold betrayal.
Quiet girl
Still girl
Ballerina pink
Queen Frostine white
That sparkling pristine face
and those clear eye stars
a doll heartbreakingly perfect
Miniature Moon 