Glory

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About the ashes we gather

eye-to-eye breathing, the nocturnal stained sheets

colorblind and strewn

messy as we marched, as in our dreams:

badge beneath tongue

summer sun drinking the shaded purple

of your beard.

It reminded us of

 

when your eyes were pierced, black hearts flaming

scared even the bullet as the confetti

sucked at your skin,

sucked your skin dry

Gravitated with greater than tectonic love

while

 

our minutes are roaring,

honey hands transmute

primeval horror of Freudian fourmis

Unleashed.

 

(the words dug like stars into you and

into you)

so we spend all night dancing, sipping

away dreams

black eyes bleached as we write

of Glory, as in

our dreams.

My Sister

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My sister with the voice of stone.

My sister with the heart of seasonal raging.

My sister with the forehead of a bald snow-kissed savanna

of alabastrine dust on top of alabastrine dreams. 

My sister with the voice of an elongated pipa string

With the face of the innocuous flesh of deer

Dripping original sin. 

My sister with lips of crooked saturated bacon strips over 

crooked teeth the color of ivory bread.

My sister with eyes of the ashes of rosewood. 

My sister with lashes of steel cutting, of

black rain of dry soot and bullet. 

My sister with the hair of a thousand eyes falling

With feet of scurrying mice and

breasts of a prehistoric vessel.

My sister with the heart of a monsoon cuffed to a tree. 

My sister with eyes of tallgrass of the unintentional poison of inarticulate executing. 

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My sister with hair the color of sun a shade of iron green more radiant than smile. 

My sister with the eyes of shotgun. 

My sister with the lips of twisted fire, of print upon print of leaves dead and reviving. 

My sister with the toes of scabs black and red dripping

My sister with invisible hands of invisible dreams

the other day I saw her they were hid behind sleeves the texture of her forbidden teeth. 

My sister with the face of denatured geometry

her eyes the color of triangles and 

her chin elephants white rising. 

That Evening Rain

That night you stole nail polish from the back of my mind,

Rain sucked us in

like a gigantic whirlpool of not-being

and we weaved.

 

Dust landmarked the root of your brows.

Some fourth-dimension force, a thread

to whose gravitation we are defenceless.

We danced to a song of nineteen eighty four.

 

Nutrition facts plastered your Instagram page full.

We drew circles around the edges of time

lest children should fall, playing some game

in a big field of rye.

 

August dumped clouds in a bucket of Fall.

You left us

listening to some songs of nineteen-eighty four.

Rain faded but never died.