Phase #4 (minus/majus)



Three angels covered with soil. Three rivers that flow from tired wombs to the room that now slowly fills with water. The bodies are housed in glass despair, their cries always falling on the thin ice of life. The signs of self-abuse, there to see in the cracks of her skin. Fingernails scraping on the concrete steps that lead to a new kind of despair. The beat of your heart and the way your insides draw them close as the moon splits above our drunken heads. Eyes turned inwards, never seeing what needs to be seen. Smiles covered in dust, with the shadows of dead lovers forever snatching at us as we pass through the night. Blotches caused by silence. Bite marks hidden beneath three feet of snow. Babies in cradles and the photographs left to fade at the foot of your bed. Belly buttons. Eyebrows. Helicopters searching the lake for old versions of truth, yet my hands are tied. Sunken like a shipwreck, impossible dreams in the sunrise of your secret smile. Take a cigarette, and swallow the smoke into your iron lungs. Take this letter, and stick it between the stones that keep away demons. Buildings slipping out of view, and the scent of hushed desires down every path we have yet to tread. Footprints on hidden planets. Black stockings just begging to be reclaimed along with everything else. Horses down roads not known, riderless and hungry for freedom. Patterns on your city dress as he kisses your forehead. There’s no reason to be afraid, no need to throw yourself on the bed in such tragic defeat. Coffee and TV as the days dissolve like shooting stars. Write it on the mirror with lipstick. Embrace the blankets that still carry the scent of old romance. It’s in the middle of a dream as all vacuums are released with bittersweet regret. Stones in your shoes. Rocks in your dirty hands. A sea the colour of blood, and the bones of our past that threaten to emerge when we’re not looking. Numb no longer. Feverish while possessed. Labia’s and werewolves as the mask is removed, and the face of the monster is glimpsed at last.

2 replies »

  1. Reading these is like sitting at my favorite booth, drinking in something exotic that burns beautifully going down.

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