250 Readings | 11 Ratings
The Grave on the Wall
If you be a wall, I will build upon you
a palace of silver by sensible touch
a palace of affection thick as a loaf of hemorrhaged hearts slipped down a dress
sun-dried on a mountain
awaiting historic performance
If you be a wall apiece with ruin or beauty
I will grip you in the middle of the night
like a shovel
I have purchased on credit
Shimoda is a fleshpot of inferior rank
sisters and brothers mingling in curds as white candy for the creationist
rides purple
in steam. The steam cannot tell sister from brother. A paper boat aground a thigh
will lap the tiles for hairs for weeks
will bleed the first time cry the second
charm straight into the third
until the cows eating zeppelins of spun sugar in the shade
be the father you be
and I be the mother wild shepherds beneath the window
A shadow grows across the floor by virtue of night
thickening into a crimson lake trellised up the diffident wall
affixed like a ring of debris on the chin of a glutton red riding-hood
Maybe it doesn’t
nobody touches me when I go to sleep
nobody touches
Strap my leg to some mammal in heat
running excitedly through some forest
for some mammal to fuck me in drag in the back of my head
terraced, Some tea leaves
lacquered in ice
I was chattering, Hung from some bow
in traction with an ogreish, Shambling mammal
in heat on low hanging branches some stars
White the stars were black
my eyes reflected were eaten
Posted 01/27/10