A slow perculator,
Dripping a small potion
Of withered and dying cells;
A swan song rope of red
Dangling like a slippery stalactite,
Silently growing drop by drop,
Living fingers slowly languishing from disuse,
Waiting for a human hand
To tourniquet the tired process
Of growing a planet from the inside
A slow perculator,
It dries in tight, dark spirals,
Deep bordeaux coils,
Tight like a snail shell,
Tiny and little brittle cluster of sea creatures.
It dries like a paste,
A chalk dust that scatters like shellac,
Cranberry shards like a crushed herb
In the palm of my hand;
Fragrant to mix with oil and vinegar,
Bruised animal seasoning
From the darkest gash,
Berry seeds plucked from the warm
And syrupy muzzle of the maternal maw.
It dries in an inky, tangled nest,
Unused womb shedding skin,
Spitting dark and mysterious animal matter,
A primordial rumble spackled up
And glossed over,
Plugged in the name of propriety.
In the morning it dries under my nails,
Congealed, jellied spread
From excessive curiosity
That washes away in warm water,
Sliding gracefully into the sinkbelly
With an innocent pink curl
Before anyone else is awake.
It thickens like a roux,
Rich soup in my stomach,
A warm sauce;
Red paint on a swelling balloon,
Shining in slivers of amber and rust.
Voluptuous patina stirred by your sex.
Carved from a cavity,
Banded cream with charcoal burns.
Fossil fuel shaped like a diamond
Below her knuckle. Cracked
Under the polish; smooth shell,
Speckled, peppered, flecked.
Dead cells scraped under fingernails,
Pink flesh moulded under frozen tissue
Suspended under glass.
The penstrokes are neat,
Slim soldiers pressed into formation,
Lambskin tattoos lying this way —
Now that way; bodies stacked high.
A house of dusky sticks,
The Sun comes from the left, East or West;
Pound signs scratched over and over
Making shadows near the woods,
Nondescript mass of arms and living lumber.
Dated 1954, a wedding gift for the mantle,
Laying eyes down in the carpet.
A cabin unlocated in the world,
Drawn for a marriage that suffocated
Under a pile of newspapers,
Crisp, tissue faces smiling on a concrete floor.
They clatter like ice cubes,
Lemonade in a pitcher clinking
And sweating; glass fractals in the Sun.
But the windows here are sashed and draped,
Mourning clothes for my low score and low buzz.
Fast motion pulse of bodies and plastic cups
Blending into abstract flesh twins,
Polyuethane tribesmen high on cheap hops.
We cheer for the pins as they
Jingle their crisp jangle;
Slender necks like swans scattered in flight.
Sometimes it blushes amber in the pre-dawn,
An eerie ombre settled into a vanishing point.
Often it falls like dust,
A timberwolf haze in swishing fabrics,
Zwhip, zwhip, zwhip between expensive thighs,
The darkest clings to the deep places,
Swollen rock wombs with craggly, limestone vulvas;
Your hands disappear in a fan before your eyes,
Colors snuffed out in an obsidian soup,
And you wonder if they were ever really there.