you wound me A lotus dress with lace of red.
psyche-reaped and kissed into a lushed womb where coiling into my lap, she lay
“Mischa, have I done something to upset you?” Oktavia’s terrifying presence made her flit for the knife, before dropping it back down on the cutting board. “What?” “There is some… type of vomit on the vegetable cutting board.” “What are you—No, no, I just chopped up the carrots—over and over again.”
Lauren let out a grunt into the dark cave, legs locking onto Artemis’s; her strength collapsed into the mutant who inhabited her space closely, soon fallen to the death of tenebrous nightfall.
death by all the flowers into my hands; moon-struck in the deconstruction of the womb in night of envying cults of orgasm
Lauren could no longer hesitate with her emotions. She had been frozen into the distinction of time and above all, tragedies—first with losing her parents, protecting her brother, Tom, as they were forced into memory loops and injections, then looking out for themselves on the island. She had to put other people out there to die, to disfigure themselves at the mercy of ash and topaz river-beds but she would do it again for him. Artemis, however, made this thinking process very difficult.
shame, shame of the garden born naked; wastrel-limbs crawl rain, winter of pearl sinking feet
a garden of have died and have not; shan’t you take my hands? my skin, a linen from the sun weeds, we share parentheses as eyelids kiss
rain flutes midnight through weeps of winter
i will let your name climb upon my body and head until i am no more.
Check out this wicked poem by George Ellington.
The words, the power, the very syntax
of your verse delights me,
says the linguist in me.
The imagery flows like molten clouds
over my aging soul,
cries the artist in me.
Your rhythm reaches into my heart
and entices me to sing,
chants the musician in me.
The sensuality of your voice caresses
my pulsating skin,
moans the lover in me.
To be a poet is to passionately embrace
so many untold selves,
says the me longing to be.
[inspired by Lucy’s “The syntax of spring“]
Gardenia, like death, I laugh as the moon cries
down from the pied-piper in the woman’s moon, I’ve seen before
Silhouettes, pretty girls dancing with Devils and elves joined hands with Sentient sunflowers, bliss, bliss
the immobile, the henna; and archaic sands in blue fibers of fields, as the moon-eyed dreamers, you and I—we’re in anamnesis of the womb, our cerise
Fossil bone, a maiden’s cliff throwing ghosts in the stalactites there, my ocean is there, and I will die with the thorn in my side;
Give me your eyes, and I’ll hold them in my mind. These brief glances of innocence I keep as treasures.