Home Fuck

White veiled widow

drags to the beat of the drum

trailing tears behind her

that become frogs of the forest

bouncing back to

their moss laced logs.

And I used to be better

at time travel,

but lost the talent

as the years passed

and the dreaming became a chore,

and the mountains of sorrow

closed in,

and the snowman melted

outside my window in the sun.

What did you say to me?

All I heard was bent echos,

wicked and bloody twisted pulses,

screech sound and metal,

deep pelvic vibration

but no syllables,

just bones crunching and

teeth clenching to the nerves underneath.

What was I thinking?
Hush that mouth of yours,

muse and water,

writer and the weather,

mad and talented,

novocaine and answers,

boring voices and closest space,

squint hard

and see the spectral glory

in between this nonsense

and fuck these words home.