is a coppery heat
when each carnival
syllable festers in
Burrows. Pops up
its polyester tents
like scarlet groundhogs
with the seasons:
animal lungs balloon
in their pockets, emptied
of iron. How rich
is your soil—
that boils its few coins
to the autumnal stutters
of clanking hearts
and gunmetal tongues.
We are creatures of prudent stitches
stuffed to stillness: black currants,
puppet buttons, unfathomable tides.
Patchworks of fluid and dark hands.
We slosh. We are full. We are poised.
I spread my neighbor’s flustered aorta
on my nutty morning toast, buttering
quiet guts with envy and wholesome
hearts. We became artists in this way.
Cannibals. Rancid sculptures. Poised.
Later, I’ll squelch my own shadow
like jelly bean crawlers. Exquisite
exoskeletons sprout crooked light
in berries from neighboring teeth.
Their jaws are set. We are poised.
Our hands lie still.
Guts. Jaws. Still.
We are poised.
Cortices trail your shadow,
umbilical tastes left intact.
We develop from formulas
to recipes. We begin to jelly.
Lips fall from putty smiles. Nobody
sets. I melted for winter. You cook
cobweb smirks through bricks
like brown sugar: that ethereal
clanking when we clatter
like dropped lollipops,
how jawbreakers giggle
through vending machine intestines.
I’m made from homebrewed indulgence
and caramelized roadkill: bones jut forth
from bastardized earths
like sucrose mountains
peaked by broken teeth.
You are slimy with the gum of tomorrow.
Go home. This world infects your mouth
your tongue post-
marked by tires.
Spice is seined from frowning earth
into loaves of flavor and celebration.
is grated from dermis.
Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark
yips wakened morsels down edges
of my geometric shadows:
rot, you unshapely ellipses.
Our roots expanded. They chipped
the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.
Our processes are wintry.
We’ll ripen out of season.
We solidify. Crumble. They tasted
so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.
How much do you think you can purify
with flagellation and broilers?
Carry through night
with a wintry guise.
Flick the guilt off
your meaty spine
with whips wet in the shrieks of lambs.
First is birth—inherently dirty.
Prepare those salient ribs for divine maws
with your favorite barbecue
more sucrose than home.