(no subject)
SHIVA
i am the mother to those
who seek for a skirt to warm up under.
an elephant,
a dagger, a man and a woman
together in danger
licking at each others wounds- perceived wounds
they, the sumps inexplicable and booming
at every moment spent bored.
wounds
molt only in hellfire.
here
every mantis cocoon
scribbling out the crescent
hanging off my left eye.
they zip the film that is my skin
downward
revealing my intentions.
here:
the machines, dust, glue
my love open like the cannon
i spring out of, across the horizon,
lucky and lovely nihilist.
an atlas of mountains.