My maiden! My titan!
Sing to me your dear deceits in rooms washed by blue static
beneath Midwestern sunsets and within each ember
of the clear burning shine, the ambrosia of the partisan
who rises to your song. Your drawling whisper coils and cusps
my form in a warm net of electrical cables, thick and course
as the obsidian hairs lumped lusciously upon your shoulders.
I too rise!
I fall into the sweet sands you have given me and I lap upon them
as a fragile sailor starved and weathered, welcoming his port
with salted kisses upon each stone, each path, each rigid rag
long soaked in liquid love and left to dry at the hearth you’ve made.
I become lost in the boundless dunes of here, of there, of those beneath
your smile and mounds still yet unknown to any hand but God’s.
That quiver and flare!
The saturation of the television light!
Through now vacant halls of the blanch manor I can hear you still.
Ride well, bringing that cumulus with you! Your sweet deceits,
your honeyed thunder and rolling dunes, make use of them elsewhere!
Step past the crumbled leaves
and dance with the north wind
once more. It is okay –
I will be your smile.
and dance with me.
Your bruised sides ache,
but I am still
to you, aren’t I?
I’ve been to many places
but in the end,
I’ve always come back here.
To whisky smells and jazz cats
suckling on scotch teats
after midnight. When all
horns are silenced and
in faded music, reaping time itself.
The bartender shouts, “Last call!”
and the darkened hands of ashen faces
reach out for one more sip. Precious
streams of liquor to choke and mangle
the last hours of a day already gone.
Yes, I’ve been to many places,
but the inebriation I rejoice in after
I’ve come back here is all I need
to tolerate that face of yours.
On ginger streamed autumn afternoons,
my brother would go to the woods
to practice shooting clay pigeons.
Each was granted a brief gift of flight before
under a sheet of pellets. Beneath his jovial
shouts – the echoing remnants of monotony
rang alongside the discharged shells falling
elegantly to the ground, resting amongst the leaves.
“There goes Ashley!” he’d scream, as the miniature
corpses of fragmented clay scattered across the
gilded sky – a dark, hardened
blood spatter – smearing the autumn sunlight.
Perhaps he got too good at it.
Lost, cold, and quavering in fear
behind scattered leaves and blotted rays
of auburn afternoons –
their faces remind me of hers.
See them laugh in vodka vapours,
crooning to the little girls.
Hear those secret moans,
soaked in fermented jizz, coming
halfway to the throat. Their
foaming mouths –
sullied smirks – begging for one more
Watch them let their laughter
Stay with me,
in this violet night. The cream soaked
moon dangles amidst stars and sugar,
ignorant of the blood etched into the
grasses below – resurging to stain the
freshly fallen sleet. Stay with me,
don’t let me die
in this violet night
Lost and abandoned
thoughts embrace an infant
like her formula stained blanket,
as she is swiftly carried through slender
compartments. Mother works assiduously
dreaming of a silent suicide. She coos
to the child playing with
scissors and staplers.
She won’t get hurt; it’s not the first time
baby hands conducted the ‘click click click’
of industrial fasteners into her carriage.
She’ll grow up proud –
knowing that when she asks mother
(if the sores gracing her lips are not too profound)
“Was I a good little girl?” she will hear
you still have all your fingers.”
Beneath the plump, black, wild raspberries
in smokey wisps of crimson summer,
her small frame nestled the vacant dewdrops.