1. |
Thorn Woos The Wound
16:37
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If the reaching arm could only sprout feathers,
her eyes entombed by the burning nothing,
your rosehearted, faceless truth
and your mouth, the begged-for hanging sword -
she would cast herself in your image.
If the reaching arm could only hold
a lantern to this avenue of sighs.
Veil inviolate, fluttering above the trench,
veil gaseous, in dancer's loving tongue.
If the reaching arm could only sit patient
waiting for the flesh of memory to rot and decay,
waiting for the train to leave the station
in a billowing transmuted cloud,
waiting for the stars to fall,
waiting.
If the reaching arm could only fray
the looming shadow of the sun
that heaven rotates
upon her tender hip.
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2. |
WHEEL
04:06
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I ALWAYS WANTED TO BECOME A WHEEL,
GROUND INTO THE COBBLE,
RUN THROUGH AND THROUGH BY AXLE
AND RUN MY TONGUE OVER THIS CITY'S HEART.
I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE BOUND BY FORM
DESCRIBED IN LUSTFUL RADII
AND BEAR YOUR WEIGHT ON MY EAGER NECK
AND BEAR YOUR PLENARY SOUL IN THE HOLLOW OF MY THROAT
DESIRE FLOWS OUT OF MY MOUTH
THE SHADOW OF MY KISS
STAINS THE PAVEMENT WITH BLOSSOM.
I ALWAYS WANTED TO SUBMIT TO FUNCTION.
I ALWAYS WANTED TO BECOME A WHEEL.
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3. |
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From lines, from opal-drenched windows,
from the white door - hesitations, fecund, mitotic.
Stair - chamber - dream - engine - lust - corridor- exit - throne - return.
Turn, turn! Draw form,
from the endless, lambent flaw, whose teeth
scrape death knells into stone, from the empty page.
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4. |
Madeline Becoming Judy
10:42
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Whisper to the dancing graveyard
of words immutable, laid threadbare:
the non-self hewn from languor,
the non-name drawn from light.
Turn the endless figment, your
hand's waver in lamplit memory, a psalm:
the mirror lashed moribund
to verdigris and rancor.
Fill my lungs with amethysts,
my hollow nouns with gales
of smirking, flickering glass,
of meaning condemned to ruin
your mouth on my name.
Emerald and ruby pared,
fawned in fallen permanence.
Heavensent in fabric flared,
desiccate as ermine hence.
Tower birthed by mirrored feint.
Death blows by blows'
recalcitrant cheeks
these vacant
pigeonhearted memories
but the sun is an empty word,
and your name is a field of poppies.
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5. |
Black Heralds
10:49
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(text by Cesar Vallejo)
There are blows in life, so formidable... I don't know!
Blows as from God's hatred; as if when struck,
the undertow from everything suffered
were forming wells in your soul…I don't know!
They are few, but they are. they open dark gullies
in the fiercest face and strongest back.
Perhaps they are the colts of barbarous Attilas;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.
They are profound abysses of the Christs of the soul,
of some exalted faith that Destiny blasphemes.
Those bloodsoaked blows are crepitations
from bread burning at the oven door.
And man…. Poor…creature! His eyes turn back, as
when someone claps us on the shoulder;
his crazed eyes turn back, and that he has lived
forms a well, like a pool of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so formidable... I don't know!
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Victory Over the Sun Portland, Oregon
a girl who makes noise
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