The Needle Breath of Optics
The needle
breath of optics,
flushed with
conquest,
jabs new marks:
a swirl of blackbirds,
feathers interlaced,
the
Nipping at their
heels
a pack of wolves
slams the dream barrier:
tongues like
pink flame,
their mating
calls eerily familiar.
Clearly we have
chased beyond the seen,
iris flecked
with bloody moons.
We skipped
sunsets like marbles, but
too fast.
Their howling
reflections burned to ash
In all our
morning mirrors.
Drunks Grind the Liquid
Drunks happily
grind the
liquid from its
massed core, friends of
the fetal
suspension.
Their monotonous
accents
fall
like a heavy
ashtray spilled on a
hardwood floor.
The fetus dreams
sloppily, its echo
released at
last,
free of the jar.
Her Pyrotechnic Cinema
Dissolved in the
murk of
frame by frame,
her bruises
seek the air
with the hunger
of flowers.
Shackled to the
bed and
stuffed with
raven heads:
the ruins of
her pyrotechnic
cinema, topped with
a halo of
cinnamon,
the taste of
dread.
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