I didn’t want to know it anymore.
pray to your artificial god, my mania sulks
There, the shores of lonely remembrance see as to I have brought On the stirring abandoned rivers that are breathless through the shriveled drops of blood, And it is glinted from the wounding sun upon my pale skin that flutters upon the shallow surf, And I, oh, I will be beside the sunsets and shadows that waned through the pretty moans, Gemmed with tears that will roll as the grappling sea that lays with a reflection of rattled and splintering waves that will curl upon the quiet stones;
Ash Wednesday in her bedroom on the thorns/ death’s bone-flute
My poem, "Memories, Never Mine" has been published in Edge of Humanity Magazine. My utmost thanks and gratitude to the editor Joelcy Kay for accepting my work.
my death resigned in her bedroom; a pharaoh’s whip on my heart, laughing
Who clear away the bodies, tie the flags low, remember who exchange your smile for piles of shit-brown guile
the dark slithers, betraying the scarlet moon
into the mellifluous hunger in each haze,
a new mother of spring,
the hills, the silence of untiring wanton blood
alterity cries for blood roses
the red dress in death over a body my body
am i a tree between the earthfled embraced a dying throne fathered in my blood
think I am a snowball in hell; I am a barbed leaf in the debris. I make myself empty of your words; they float on my bones
she slips to winter’s underclothing and embrace; as if a prowl of death in the sun’s hands is unseen to the bed of bruised gardenias.
I knelt down of dreams, of seas for reaping digits against the tree-bark in absence of the moon’s tongue of Janus—sprawled out to the wails of shyness; father of bones, do not come back for me.
dead fathers are hard to talk to.