Come, I’ll clean my teeth with you
and stain the furniture with echoing pulse.
I didn’t want to diagnose us
a waterfall of butter and melted wires
waves of licorice pulsing off the cliffs
arching your shoulders to carry the moon
a platter of metal and earth
but here we are
and I’ve crafted a bar cart of your limbs.
In the dialect of sapphire blinks
he said he could chisel slippers from the cold eclipse.
I reminded him to pluck the jewels from Orion
when he’s not looking and they’re left to curdle
in the jokes of Mercury, ripened and illustrious.
Black is flattering to my hips, but so are jewel tones.
I’m a winter in that sense, yet still so ignorant
in the fashion of tactile sensation and emotion.
Perhaps a sheer hare would do well for my calves.
A fox, rampant with flame and stoked with coffin velvet,
or a woodpecker with a wildfire in its laughter.
I look the best in demise and mourning –
these predators like a girl sadder than the dying moon.
But his tongue is softer, is warmer, than that. He says
this is all just beautiful, and so are you. I wear the furs
of a horror game sunset and call it a day.
is the modern synonym for skeleton.
Marrow, a euphemism for hive mind:
on better days, hormones.
Head. I’ve learned to assemble the wiring
from IKEA pictographs and indecipherable
craniums. Home. I am nowhere near human
now – the scalp smells like an oil slick,
gathering the corpses of unfortunate beasts
in its tendrils like a greedy cephalopod.
It’s not the handstand of vision
bombastically tuning overworked retinas
but the fluidity of associations –
how the pupil learns to cartwheel
in response to fearful stimuli, its muscles
pulsing outwards in in A major
while the heart shrieks back into the womb.
It’s about sympathetic input and survival,
a sensory balance instead of eradication.
Living the perception instead of mastery.
Partnership. I’m Pavlovian to orange,
learning to pluck nerves in a violet range.
I could fit my new voice into an intact walnut –
that I appear to be an unbroken surface when sap
leaks through like underwhelming whitecaps.
The nutcracker angrily spits out a new dialect
where coffin is synonymous with chrysalis
and sin can’t be contained at the size of an apple seed.
I have simultaneously slumped and hardened,
a petrified sugar maple no longer viscous with sweet
edible things or forest offspring, prime as a kitchen island
propping up the fruits of another family.
What I mean is that my vasculature
may as well irrigate a wilted houseplant
and that we’re applying CPR to firewood.
Welcome to the equinox of extended mornings, spreading
out their bubble gum tongues to taste our dehydrated faces.
If our dome can fit a world in one plastic dispenser, velveteen
muscle reaching out to sense the air like a curious mollusk,
then I’ve fit a whole hemisphere in the tip of a ballpoint pen.
In one radiant heat wave, I’ve pooled my mouth into a black
oasis of mud. I’ve lost half of myself and sense of ownership,
breathing through a new sea. Suddenly, I’m alright with this.
I hang my thoughts along the curves of a porcelain mug:
diced them into little bullets on a battered cutting board,
dunked them in a lukewarm blend of honey and earl grey.
Tea is liquid calm, cooking is therapeutic, so this should suffice,
I mutter, fragrant thunderheads boiled to life by flashing teaspoons.
They are thirsty and bitter, sliced like a shedding autumn
and swirling leaves in a tumultuous universe. As such,
I gorge on their anger and transfer my matter using heat –
suddenly, we are a flustered universe trying to expand
in a concord skull the size of a grape. I tell them melting is
reincarnation – they use cyclical, fatalistic, cannibalistic.
I just sprinkle fine medicine in the brew and call it a night.