I stamp out parts of light that are
alien to me.
I decide there is nobody, no one who
could love a bent and
bawling redcoat without
the means for war.
It’s the same. Light spiral downwards
I catch in my hand, the intricate workings
of a little girl’s brain.
Don’t come again.
She’s not coming out to play.
It grapples my insides, a hideous thing without
arms or legs but a mouth.
Pathetic thing, it tries to leave a mark.
It’s wounds pump like a poison, but there is no mark,
I make sure to of that.
attaches itself to my ribs, porcupine velcro;
spine in a riot, don’t want it—
up in arms, limbs like jellyfish
push out to stretch— touching nothing.
There is no light here, only a deep echo,
the darkness of Parousia, feverish
chest. My hair is cut to my shoulders
my eyes are numb green things, everything else is normal
I can pat ropy parts of my muscle onto no one else,
they get stretched and bleached,
spread thick toffee.
No one told me other things break too.
fingers, legs, mouth, stomach—
all rolled into one bleak,
And the typing. It doesn’t hurt
my ears it hurts everything.
The click like a cut of skin the
clack like a slap—
cold meat wrapped around my ears.
Backgrund noise. Essays—
words and words, words like
oxygen making my eyes tired.
Staircase, upward bound. Alchemy
this is alchemy, the longest walk of
my life. Here now, the same. I want to
pull things from my head—
creatures alive and creatures
I cut bright light, I cut
bulbs in two and open the screaming
I want nothing at all.
Your breathlessness and mine are the same.
Falling doesn’t frighten me, I do it as often as it comes.
I take to it
I am nestled
in thunder, the sound like
pulling ligaments. The smell like
pink palms burnt to remove
a perfect layer of skin.
Help me find a way out;
this labyrinth, muscle with
a skeletal cap and a clump
of hair, too thick to be feathers.
There is nothing to drink
from, black pus pouring,
tap water for the dead.
Is that what they call it?
The dance macabre, the
pull to heaven,
you can’t escape it so
you are too late little
bright and untouched.
There is a hole in my dents,
scratches in my scars. Tomorrow
will be better, but this hour is
deep and unending,
Give me black noise; white is too
gentle, staccato screaming. Blackness
no turning back.
I can’t sleep, my dreams
wriggle like animals
in a boiling pot.
It’s happened again, it’s alien to me,
the body of a
moving on fire— tongued
The little girl wakes up with nobody.