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Literature
Hauntings:
i. a fair wraith of fatality
even from here
i can hear the crunch of your brittle
ribcage as your bones sunder.
they look at you like you're a moonflower,
with their small green eyes and
low-chattering fingers.
they want to know
the things that are wrong with you:
poetry on discoloured skin,
burning cigarettes,
your twisted black nights,
fear of the sun,
mind's intrusion of flicking tongues and
pressed flesh and
fusing vitals-
and how you still haunt:
silhouette teetering on the blurred edges of our memories,
phoenix eyes behind ember hair,
just a trivial skyward curve of your lips.
yet has no one noticed: you're not breathing?
Literature
I only fear myself
i.
For my birthday last year, I asked for rain:
no, for a storm, thick with thunder,
where every drop fell heavy and hard
weather which had blown in from the Pacific,
weather I could catch in my throat,
full to the brim and overflowing
to leave skin bruised,
bursting every berry on the boughs
tearing the blossoms and buds,
but the summer turned to drought
and I cooled my heels in the cellar instead.
ii.
This year the air is swaddling,
hot and humid, the sky a bolt of blue
hung with clouds, rich and royal,
and Christ's Mass dawns godless.
The night before had cusped on Winter's Solstice,
stretching long enough for a dream of you.
Somew
Literature
Onslaught
it rushes over me
a gust of tumbling objects
protestations and pinheads
straining the rainbow stitches
that pin my soul together
a stabbing suggestion
complete with kiwi and tangerine
and words i dont quite understand
hurtle towards me
uncertainty bleaches the threads
binding me together
thoughts overwhelm
red coals and sweatpants
bits of cloth and ruby dust
are sprinkled across my mindscape
a crack appears
a spark
ignites bits of fluff
camo teddies and orange bubbles
a gaping hole
a devouring empty mouth
it occurs to me that i have lost
everything
the black whirlwind that
speeds across the landscape
shreds everything
but from the pu
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Mature
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Comments9
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Why crickets?