Upturned like a reversed day's cycle,
A blur of blade and feather in my grieving sleep.
The streets, boutiques, parkways are an idyll in affluence
Thrumming what bornes of seizures in an untidy girl's hearthrug head
The windowstill shakes
And they keep coming in;
Cusps of brawls languid, they find leisure in prodding the ear, sundered limb,
Abstruse to accents peeping inone hundred clatter but the din impending from within.
My shamed saint tending to the flapping russet bell of sin
My ear I'm a captive too to the meat element
In all my shoal marrow and the cool that cooks these bones to mottled columns
In all my flux; one step rising on the ladder,
Two buckling two-fold the snub trail-fall
That chipped tank is ladden_
Draining holes greening my chewing tusks necrose nibble,
Neurones to ecru yarn.
Marbles truncate to a rotten mouthed idiot trifling wit for a mock
These waves keep crashing down
Bleaching the stretch of peroxide lucidity,
Gone the vicinity curled in static horizons gelling my eyes a waxiness foreign to water pearls_ genuinity.
Like a put down trunk I hold the plank
An anatomy forked ochre and bitter ends
The body a lightweight among ants_
Even insects troll their reproach to my redundant regard.
Me in my bed waiting, presaging for a fire to eat at my side,
Nudge a burning in the cleft_ my waist;
Whetted in no touch but velour garments that chafe bronze epicarp to hurt scab
A lamina dust figurine strocking herself
Brooding the sniff of warmth
(Though never touched),
Under dusk under unfeeling linens
To be, for once, for once a ruin to be cherished
A shrine of pieces to be lauded;
Mouthed love in cornes that never saw the light of day,
To my most southern swell_ quivering
Fom heat and the gulling fancy that this ceiling, this chandelier in silence that pants,
Is espying on limbs longer than my own
Threading fingertip to hip, eye to eye, thrust to gasp
Until hell is a shadow to my flame,
The devil's head a wreath to my shingling
Darkness frets the dark I saddled under the phantom of my icon
Though, I'm an idol illustrated in lying likeness_ the hump is large
No matter the analogy, no matter how aloft these arms carry me
Touch curdles an airy lump that could never be bolstered with mastic visions.
The grapes bister colored are still stumping the moribund vine-way that hoard stones;
A stamp of my face from every dog day, winter tenure;
A blotch of frailty burying a never fringing ward known memorywith corrode endeavors
Inhuming tile, hay and spine
A blury film running those lids to glitter behind fastened jars
Is but a crooked earthenware stowing vittles whisper-made
Deep into smothered, long elapsed hearths
This_ this you can't call or name is a hedge demanding repose
A susurous breathing down the neck of your nightgown, tatters dragging
"Incline my regions, daze away at my leas
Close the passage of day from under the curtains,
Strode ahead fast asleep"
23/1/2024
