I'm taking the knife to the books that I own and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone.
Things I have loved i'm allowed to keep.
I'll never know if I go to sleep.
We tear each other apart, blood in, blood out, we christ, crucify, sancte deo and still our sacs are no fuller. Cut deeper. I've swallowed a dragonfly in the headlight grind, shearing my words and wings in a callous growth dipping headlong sleep-wise in between the dappled drowning drops making rain.
Just keeping time.
These soviet stockades we're replacing in an archetype like single malt gin, soaked and slattered, I'm sot and sought after for nothing of kind. And intentions keep us harboured, no gauntlet to fall or guillotine to swing, and the scars keep pouring out, acclamations of magnanimity we bolster our coy corduroy elbows with. How hallowed. And you few are but many by broken math and mislaid promises, appropriating incentive in misguided fear. You've forgotten your nom de plums, left them hanging dryly couched and stuffed in fetters of cheek and tongue.
There was panic from the thunderous womb, an earthen portrait of cunt and cunnilingus foreshadowing the lean gleam of her former skin. Some capitol boiling over, a spoiled child, spoil of war, gifting, ingratiating, but alien to the allantoic mournful tune.
We are motherhood in an abject equation left after pale parades droned out the insanity of phantoms and limbs, life and sin. And we chafe each other raw in unreliable gestation, wrapping the altar in wool and winding cords to hang ourselves in, ignorant of the inertia we bring outward carried in vestiges of subtle sighs and held-over whims.
In three feet of shoulder I find sentimental aluminum dreams whispering in the gardens of stars and passed by litterings shy of the bin. In six feet of pavement I have a home and rustic folly trailing out from canteens of octanes and catalytic converter streams, a paradise of carbon monoxide heavenward carrying me, an infant soil-snatch-seed avec l'élan.