(no subject)
on spring so far (in words not-quite-right and phrases spun from sleepless nights)
snail bicycles dew-gather in an oyster mist while midnight painters madly brush
black on black on black.
our cigarettes lay scattered on slickened sidewalks, spilling ash from broken paper bodies.
(living lips curved around them once and they breathed red and whispered smoke.
they burned and burned away to nothing and then we arced them into the night.)
rain stings my windshield and the blades scrape the glass, making crushed-pollen patterns that shift with every stroke.
in your eyes i find the ashen sky (that is sick with viral spring), and my hand in yours is moist with sweat where the season breathed its putrid breath.
the spores of spring have fallen now in concrete gardens and asphalt fields, and they float in poison puddles of rainbow gasoline and smog-gray rain.
may is not the month for death and this is not the spring i know. but i guess it would be safe to say that we're never really safe at all, and that this year's april's acid showers brought funeral may flowers.
i smell the sour scents of winter's waste and the early rot of this sickened spring. and now is the time (if there's ever a time) to -
(and under blushing, touching-mine skin
on peachfuzz arms and apple cheeks
halfmoon blues mark rotted spots
that no packaging can hide.)
snail bicycles dew-gather in an oyster mist while midnight painters madly brush
black on black on black.
our cigarettes lay scattered on slickened sidewalks, spilling ash from broken paper bodies.
(living lips curved around them once and they breathed red and whispered smoke.
they burned and burned away to nothing and then we arced them into the night.)
rain stings my windshield and the blades scrape the glass, making crushed-pollen patterns that shift with every stroke.
in your eyes i find the ashen sky (that is sick with viral spring), and my hand in yours is moist with sweat where the season breathed its putrid breath.
the spores of spring have fallen now in concrete gardens and asphalt fields, and they float in poison puddles of rainbow gasoline and smog-gray rain.
may is not the month for death and this is not the spring i know. but i guess it would be safe to say that we're never really safe at all, and that this year's april's acid showers brought funeral may flowers.
i smell the sour scents of winter's waste and the early rot of this sickened spring. and now is the time (if there's ever a time) to -
(and under blushing, touching-mine skin
on peachfuzz arms and apple cheeks
halfmoon blues mark rotted spots
that no packaging can hide.)