Au Coeur Du Beau

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Kill My Body With Care


Once the rain has stopped, the things that were dead start growing. The blossoms come out in the orchards. I was the only one in HIS. HIS branches are wrapped around MY blossoms like great white smothering sheets, dotted with red. And there are streets, where tree after tree smothers-THEIR blossoms; covered in the bright unnatural pink of circus candy. But I like it. I like it a lot...WE struggle to leave though; swaying in the breeze. Listen carefully and YOU will hear MY muffled moans. I shouldn't like this. My virtue flies away.
HIS earth is giving birth to insects. At first there are only a few. Then HIS swamp starts disgorging them as if spitting watermelon seeds. Little heat seeking watermelon seeds, spat from between HIS gap-toothed grin. Flies crash against the windows. Moths pound the screens at night. Ants are in our life cereal marching five-by-five, six-by-six, like in the song.
Dead fish lap at the edges of the reservoir. I don't understand my lifecycle but maybe I waited all winter to die. Or maybe MY flat corpse has been stacked under the ice all winter; like a t.v. dinner and just now floated to the top.

 

 

 

 


Draw It Slowly


I breathe you in and
I breathe you out.
Sometimes it hurts.
Other times, I am floating-
Feeling nothing at all.
My chest is a fire storm,
And you are my fireman-
Coming to my rescue
And breathing new life
Into me.
Because every time it happens,
A die a little more inside.
My lungs can’t take much
More of this.
What I need is a cure for deficiency,
But what they give me is a  prescription for obscenity.
A little vial from which I draw
My last breaths.
“To help” they say,
170 left.
Days,
Weeks,
Months.
Maybe years.
There's a warning label on every bottle.
Do not exceed dose.
But they never tell you why
What will happen if I do?
It makes it easier to endure.
Maybe my lungs are so burnt and
Damaged
By years of wildfires,
That I have taught myself
To believe.
Believe that if I take enough,
My lungs will grow new trees
And there will be water cascading
From my beaten breast
And vines will branch around my spine
And no fire would dare touch these lungs.
170 left…
What will happen when they’re all gone?
But no one ever tells you that...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode To My Beloved


Twisting,
Winding.
He is beauty
In a basket.
Prepared and placed
Just right
So when you look at him,
He is mouthwatering
A slice of smile
Here,
A piece of laughter
There,
A drink of sensitivity
Everywhere.
His body is stationary,
But his ever-leaking mind
Is flying away.
Yet, nowhere
Can we find a place to
Rest upon Your grace.
My breast fills with the uninjured
Pleasure of his kisses.
Sharp, broken kisses.






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