1958

1958

The child

ran all the way home,

stood on the dark stairs

shaking. 

She spoke 

to the Great Swollen,

the gut with legs

the maw that swallowed

innocence whole,

complaining of the taste.

The girl asked It,

why do the others

have fathers do I have one

what

is a father?

It slapped her

hard

don’t ask me that

It spat.

It was you, you, you

sticky brat, sour milk-spitter,

all because of you

he  hated children

so he left.

 The girl wasn't sure

what hate was but she heard

the bones snap,

began to feel the growing

soft and sharp edged 

under the dish

 of  bruises.

So part of the girl left

while the rest stayed to tend

the black seed that kept her alive.

~April 2013

© Black Wildflowers blog 2013
All rights reserved.

Devil's Laughter

Devil's Laughter

Time came unbound

like your feather wild hair,

the feeling shadows of thorn,

endtimes laid on the plate

of a destitute breast.

It was hell dark

in the filthy theatre.

The old ticket-girl sat nude

and tattoed,  like Madame Defarge

knitting the playlist for the guillotine ball.

And so clicked the tale 

from her needles to mine;

how He spoke to the girl

in the bathtub forsaken, 

razor-naked and numb:

You die before living--

a sad backwards thing;

spread for me--learn.

He brought her in velvet

the delightful box of tortures,

the ambrosia of Tantalus

to put between her legs.

He artfully taught her

to rub out the human

for the animal clench,

to suck all the sweetness,

climb hard for the falling,

then took it away

from the mad thing a-mumble

in her wilderness skull,

wearing the blind face 

of an ancient race

we can no longer know.

He left laughing 

laughing

on His way through the endtimes,

for the First Days were forgotten 

and Death held no ease.

~February 2013

dVerse Poets

© Black Wildflowers blog 2013
All rights reserved.

Browning

Browning

The earth is wrapped in burning

brown abeyance, jerking fretful

in hot flash cold St Vitus' dance,

teeth on edge, rhythm shot,

the colossus god thief 

gone small as a pea no longer green

beside his golden foundry,

abandoned like a warped wheel

murdered by its own machine,

reduced to a clockwork locket 

on a cowskulled desert trek.

We are the thing

that uncocks the flower gun,

knifemelts the mother to bleed

a drowning of ice-water tides.

We are numberless now,

a dirtstorm of demand

pressing our heaviness on a mouth

that would be willing 

if it could only breathe.

~March 2013

© Black Wildflowers blog 2013
All rights reserved.

After The Fall

After the Fall

Sometimes these tongueless hours bring you close

breath to hanging breath, a laugh your key

to the deadbolt of ambivalent remorse

a remembered violated electricity.

Other times the soulless house contracts,

the shadow falls, the long-awaited night

clings to me,  a flower to its bracts;

god clears the clinkered eye-mote from his sight.

He kicks the wormy apple from paradise

to roll the long descent to cidered hell

square-ended in a box of no replies,

and stops the mouth of the pixelated well.

A chiaroscuro grief, saint's agony

is Lucifer's anaphasic mutiny.      

~February 2013

dVerse Poets


© Black Wildflowers blog 2013
All rights reserved.