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.

1 comment: