sallow

Sallow my mind lies
waiting for ignition
recognition
aborting all thoughts
calls them selfish
not time efficient
un-economical
certainly not saving a generation
waistful it crys
waiting it howls
for what it wonders
always worrying one foot with the other
and at long last
sighs
at least it has that
strange reality of self
staunch reality of I.

my days

My days are divided not by time, but by the rearranged thoughts that cross my mind. Or more like boldly bogart all reason and regularity. I am consumed. Not as lovers do in lovers eyes but as flys dive into quiet lights, face crumbling into the dusty expression of a recovering addict. Eyes ringed with red, always a look of pleading towards pastfulness. Long hours become the impossibility to hope for future happenings and life takes a back burner to farewell blues.

separation

How can you split us so dispassionately?
Are you doctor
to two abominably attached twins?
I too use the hands
that you so hastily remove
from my company.
How can you bare
to lose these limbs
this blood, the very same
which deafened your senses
so loud was its pounding
in such a recent past.
Still I taste the mouth
tried on so often by me.
The lips, the lips, the lips
I sang from them.

the mountain

The mountain is pink
lying dying and almost dead
pulled apart and bleeding
her blood diluted by the pain of sap
and fear and rain
pink as flesh pulled back
and I can see her bones
skeleton of ravaged old wood
lying black and cold in the soil, now barren
and its as though from my window on the road
real life can not be reached
and roots are too far
covered in poc marks and scars.

my green mother

My green mother creeps and sweeps
strange and hideous
unbending and broken
fixing and breaking in constant rotation
I marvel at her
my green mother who begins
a slight mewing babe
soft as orchid skin
and ends a vast landscape of ancient creases
clothing a hardened hide.
Cover me in her green rolling hills and great wide basins
and bathe me in her white wading glaciers
with skin upon skin of ice.

dead feelings

dead feelings surface like miscarried fetus
in fits of despair
like every good abortion the subject must be sucked out
or sit and rot
surface in a horrifying scream
scratch a dream
in the instant of realization
that we are but dust and overgrown dolls
danced down the illusory aisle
but the illusion of time
becomes unforgivably unkind
when it realizes itself on your face
we all grow
as i have never been this way before
and may (will) never be this way again
and we all grow old
though i feel as old as i ever hope to get
so old that memories are the only solids
i still swallow

we have

We have punctured the soft green
and drank the sweet nectar of our supple earth

she is my mother

soured yet bambino fresh
made of Beelzebub's tears and Abraham's flesh

over manipulated for stone and metal
hard and clever
ruined forever
and crumbling into oceans following stronger rules
of white light, the lovers jewel

and her children are cruel
forsaking her to an unknown and untimely demise
or trust in god, a weak respite

she weeps
but will retain herself despite the rot
and outlive the rapist
outlive the plot