The setting sun is an eye that vomits blood.
The full moon is flung into the sky
like the pale placenta from an unwanted birth.
The insane repetitions of night insects
hope desperately at every moment
for a different outcome,
but my love for you is the monster in this movie,
and when I get the rusted-looking strips of rag
wound tightly enough around my forearms,
I will begin to gnaw on my fingers.
My creation will be a thing neither living nor dead,
a zombie, a virus,
and I only hope that in the morning
my blood will still be fresh enough
to make the sand sparkle at your feet.
love makes every breath
a perfect, miniature,
doll house sized crucifixion.
O Great Vacancy,
O Scream Without A Mouth:
I will steal from you
the courage of trees
that eat their own still-living leaves,
not knowing whether this agony
should be called birth or death.
Swallow my eyes, O Raven,
so that I can fly above
and see myself hanging
upside down, listening to the music
of my heart-blood’s drip drip drip
on the blind, infertile ground.
Although they burn my tongue
like melted aluminum
I will keep those bright syllables
stitched inside my mouth.
I will twist bruised plugs of leaves
and stop my nostrils,
so that I will not exhale
the air of that last day.
Then, I will lie down,
where cattle stand dreamlessly,
under the heated sleep of trees
and I will not speak your name
until the dead ride their horses
over my flat, dusted heart.