Dirty Hair

Your bony fingers play my rib cage like a lyre
Your violence is so pretty
I am at such a loss
such a loss for words
and my dirty hair shows that I have fallen
from the grace of the silver deity
Why are dead birds falling out of your ceiling?
I want to shed red onto your carpet
I want to rip out my veins and sew a blanket with them
to keep you warm
or just to keep you
who are you?
That is a question for myself
to hold and cradle like a baby

Sadness

my melancholy is not exuberant
it is soft and sweet
like lace in a slow burning house
the cinders curling up
like cherry confetti burning the Sky
sending ashes down
to coat the dirt

Autumn

trees shedding leaves like old women losing their fear
it is fall
and the ghosts are crawling their way out of tracheas
and falling into the world
covered in bright red blood
placenta for the new world
a gift
and they are all stalking the tall grass
and whispering down empty streets
about what the early night will bring
and why it must come

Hands

Chances Are
My Life will end at my own Hands
For I am naught but a tired flower
wilting in the breeze



My hands carry little
My heart even less
This is a sad one


my hands are covered in blood
and my eyes are swallowed by the ghost of my father
winding around the labyrinth of my nightmare
You are a mirror
shining like a star
being eaten by the universe
you are an ink stain
you are full of ash
you are a sweet tray of dirt
and used cigarettes


There is an explosion
across the country
the city is burning
all the ants have got their guns
and their burning down the playground
And I am sitting here
having my brain burned by the tv
while my hands
sit idle