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Thursday 10 January 2013

Alex S. Johnson

The Needle Breath of Optics
The needle breath of optics,
flushed with conquest,
jabs new marks: a swirl of blackbirds,
feathers interlaced, the
                                   mask of family damage.
Nipping at their heels
a pack of wolves slams the dream barrier:
tongues like pink flame,
                                  eyes of crushed glass,
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
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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