Burnished head consecrating
tarnished thighs in the hot tongues of unborn
sighs candle-fingered, the light is bleeding into
Prince of stares in the semi-seeing night,
when you are certain as arrows
you will never catch me.
Cold at FourIs there a technical term for a harp maker?
If there isn't, it's you, as a body, that canine
Your name doesn't
ring right but it's what you do with it that counts:
I tumbled around it and never said it at the correct second, like the
cuboid-skulled choirgirl a note behind, loud and disgusting. A faulty
The banal usurping of my bookish tongue
came on quick.
I'm very sorry.
Everything scratched backwards and now my spine streams
from my throat, cursive handwriting.
Scored in your scalp:
the clicking of toes, falling asleep in the hands of metal men,
forgotten criminality, barbed wire telephones -.
you look like so many faces -
for all I know you don't exist except in broken chairs.
The Maritodespotic PathI am naked beneath my coat of armour.
I woke and thought it was the sickness
I'd had before - my lips had never burned
The ghost of your dog came to me
last night, while I dreamed;
it burst into grey dust and
told me my bulimic piano solos were beautiful.
Dancing under the pregnant sky,
a waning gibbous belly crowned
with violet cloth,
I converse with the moon -
deep, dark French.
I love to speak
to hunted rabbits
and unlit trees.
WitchMy belletrist, little hunched cardigan-drenched
finch, he says, Mess, blooded with French shores and burned cakes,
don't you come to my hand anymore,
crying poppies from sallow ducts, my tiny soil-saviour?
- he touches his own ass-ears with his spiked teeth
and pets me 'til I'm salmon, sunset -
Sleep in my bed, stocky moth,
cease your painting, beetle queen, queenly slut,
turned frizzy in the process of sharpening the sea,
mouth your watercolours and hose down the wall
- I am ill of him, his eating
makes me a murderer -
Newborn kettle-coffee throws a kiss
and our son climbs my sullen thighs;
I doubt we will fall out of love,
the spiders we are.
The WoodsThey were shaped like humans, humans with rat-tail hair or weeping willow spines or long hungry feet, and they danced around her, carried on her fearful imagination. She could taste their wicked delight and she cried, paralysed as they fed upon the chilled currents of winter walks. The little wolves spun up her ankles and took on her thighs; nothing left unexplored for them or her, a vicious loving in the trees. She met the thick loam with her knees and stayed upright, her hollowed body becoming the only memory anyone might ever have of her.
These are the woods where the children come to die. These are the shadows where grey-faced sleep waits, never speaking, never turning. The children fall into the grim peace and no one can follow their red toes into the shroud.
Vulva SongThe curtains are never drawn in the spare room.
Why aren't you coming, why aren't you sitting on the edge of the bath keeping watch right through me?
I feel the carpet and soak up every silent look, store them under my toenails, and I miss you. You exploded,
the bees in the lavender bush are all that's left of you.
Articulated PointsOne year after I met you -
Ill, stricken, your chocolate orange lies
castling across my joints,
I break concave dandelion, seeds
splashing under my gambling shoes.
One year, one month -
They may lay their hides over your favourite
city garden walks, might leave hopeful lip prints
on the glass in your sturdy museum holidays, spit
love-letter typefaces down their ankles or hum in the grey
cold to stay awake for surgery,
and I will coagulate with my dresses,
procreationif you've ever tasted Cain's wine
you'd disappear into the wilderness, too,
through cracks of a dull, powdered sun,
aching to fill up the earth.
you take me back far,
to a time of no saviours,
when I could paint my breasts with the blood of beasts,
when the only electricity that flowed was
the curse of god blackening my skin.
oh, my god,
I will suck in this dust and
moan out towards a black sky,
in a time of no time, no stars and
leave green Eden to the first fools,
I will crawl to you,
I will claw you down
slip into your mouth
and your mind will fall.
Black Wedding Dress On my wedding day, I will not be clad in a pristine white dress. If white is the symbol for purity, innocence, perfection, I do not want to wear it. I am not pure or prefect. I am not spotless as a white dress is. I would rather have the truth come out and adorn a black dress. As black as night to show that I am not perfect. Others may look at me in terror for wearing something that should be worn to a funeral, but if I explain that it was the truth, would they still gape in horror? The dark color that will cover the fabric will represent all the mistakes that I have made. I will wear a dark blue ribbon around my neck to show that I am aware of my situation and that I am self reliant. Around my right wrist will be a ribbon green as the newly cut grass to tell that I have healed from my mental wounds but worn with the dress, it shows that I haven't forgotten. Tied around my left ankle will be a red ribbon. Reveling only to those with a keen eye that I still have desires to