psyche-reaped and kissed
into a lushed womb where
coiling into my lap, she lay
Tag: dverse
don’t leave in limbo (Draft).
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused
in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
it was home to me (Draft).
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.
Some demonstrations of sorrow (Draft).
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.
Do not tell me what I was
to redraw that cold war face,
to see a woman of what I bleed
the muse is dead.
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
unhappiness.
I sit at her bedroom window
an age where branches hung themselves Antigone.
as rain ends.
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body
aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented
waste of sperm
le mystère.
i only have sensibilities in
sempiternal madness
Lamplight falls.
I had the same hope Sylvia Plath
did, at one point, in her journal—she didn’t want to die.
Leave a note (first).
my heart in the oubliette
Leave me alone (Draft).
turn away
cull the thoughts
wanting to go home.
Solitude’s simplest explanation.
just not to feel anything beyond me in solitude’s Occam’s razor.
Dreamscape.
How fucked is that? She mused in her dreamscape.
Love’s song.
I pull her free into the garden
Every word you say.
my death resigned
in her bedroom; a pharaoh’s whip on my heart, laughing
Mnemosyne.
I shun the cull of your words
I stand at refraction/rejection.
Solicitude/Solitude (Final Draft).
I see the dead potatoes
of our graves. Gulping in your absence,
there is no agony or languor
beneath the worlds in darker glory to refract
from my mind, but of the word it is not mine
Lonesome.
[I]
fell and fast
first frost and finally coquelicot death.
My father was a man like Augustus.
Blood doesn’t mean anything
on my bosom, and loneliness was refracted
by my memory.
Pseudopsychosis. 