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Literature Text
We knew that six feet under
Grew maggots
And the delicately placed serotype;
A nasty case of the sniffles,
Which nurture had won
From the battle with nature.
We bred more than a little bug during our time,
But Just got one: a relic,
Crusty and rusted and forgotten,
Brought by a nightmare of red,
Spreading across like a cold and
Manufactured on
An axis tilt.
Grew maggots
And the delicately placed serotype;
A nasty case of the sniffles,
Which nurture had won
From the battle with nature.
We bred more than a little bug during our time,
But Just got one: a relic,
Crusty and rusted and forgotten,
Brought by a nightmare of red,
Spreading across like a cold and
Manufactured on
An axis tilt.
Literature
Roadmaps
I have traced my fingers along,
following undulating roads
on faded parchment maps but
there is no X
to mark the spot
where you should be.
I have pushed my way past
half-lit tunnels of willow
leaves, tread over mossy rocks
and overturned each one,
searching for clues, arrows.
I have mapped the stars and
their trails that I might
never be lost - but I am wandering
all the same without
you.
I have studied each roadsign;
followed each one
to its dead end
and U-turned back
to where I started.
I have traced my
footsteps,
over and over,
searching for the place
where I lost my way,
but there is no path back
to you.
Literature
----
i wish i could singe my words
to your body;
maybe then i could
keep track of them.
if i could wound you,
split your skin and write
into the ice-scabs
run elastic through the seams
and tug,
until i am compressed
to a sugar pill,
small enough to keep in
the crook of your elbow
past the sun's death.
i want to remain.
woven into your various systems
and whispering through dishes,
wrinkles in your palm,
enveloped in the quietness
of lamp beams,
blinding and naked.
i want to keep you up at night,
have one-sided conversations
disintegrate into your memory,
into the burble of your constant mind.
Literature
cacoethes.
your hands are hot-houses, built to
grow my skin (in).
rest your feet upon the snow, its cold and,
you're cold.
he says,
fly, sara,
fly.
a romantic can only learn romance from the stars.
so you learn how to fly.
but the carpet is too far away from
the sky.
fly, sara,
fly.
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Comments3
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Wonderful as ever. 