the shriek of my body, a purple loose hanging moon beneath the toes- a shriek so wild stretches through the carcass I have nothing left to weep now for the moon has taken a dip inside the river. I hear my village burning, and see people sleeping so quietly, so wildly as if nothing ever happened. A lullaby lost in a path- mouthless, a blue broken hemisphere. What do I do with my limbs now? How do I sit and regenerate in a porous night?
and all my body is a temple
a temple or a place where i dedicate my sins to bloom into petals.
A hung white cotton thread that stitches the lip,
a mouth so corrosive,
eyes tired of nothingness.
The abstract silence sits upon my chest rummaging through my body.
I feel nothing,
nothing like a bedroom door,
quiet and hysterical.
This is the motion of mundane surreptitious talks, i do.
Do not comprehend more.
I write because of loneliness, tonight
damp torquoise paths
because of uncalld sadness, grinning at my own pain.
i think of myself as a silver figment of broken imagination
cluttered jawlines/ defining rotten choir of vacant sun.
the lips sequines on the pillow to cry further
about the hurt on the knee, circling the entire room of light.
my presence paints a dark star on th e night, tonight
a bloody dark spot.
What shall happen to me next?
The hole that gullets its teeth, will you see me there?
Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.
Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.
i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.
A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.
I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.