the Prometheus death fit for humankind, take it then take it and see how we are born, see how we’ll die.
two mouths crawling the Medusa legs us pale girls virulence being told is our blood and bones.
Of this night’s eye or insanity that was dissevered, A divine satire loomed of an Iliad one day, that was deemed as dithyrambic.
I let her keep the banns, told her I didn’t care what she did with it. She had eyes that hid a body, perhaps
I see you I hoard your threaded- mulling-overs; playing me into junction, screaming, sighing screaming, sighing
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been, and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
My hero turned out to be a monster, it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves and empty words spill—spill
her lune, how precise and anticlastic as if each horror you provoked could somehow make me want you
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother like when my grandfather said “I’m going to kill you” while counting money
with no thread of flowers to plant your feet on, and into morning air at a hotel room remembering that’s what home felt like.
I found a dead deer in the road at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
Note: I think I wrote this around a year ago. It was a nice diversion from the tension of those early times, while still delving into it. This is a satirical piece, so just a forewarning since the pandemic impacts us all in different ways. I don't take it lightly either as I have had distant family pass from it; back on point, I know this can be a sensitive topic so proceed with caution.
Through the smokestacks there is the death of me as I pass the hills.
Glassy eyes in sumac touches she waits for me or doesn’t
as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me breathing in my cigarettes, death’s in the traveler being left alone in Italy; from the garden, all bodied, all that red and bleak
I sit at her bedroom window an age where branches hung themselves Antigone.
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented waste of sperm
the jagged teeth of a leviathan smiling across the nighttime line running low, above the clouded blue-black ink of deepest sea