AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—a mari usque ad mare:from sea to seaover me, a devil in the sky above;and the Huntresspeels dawn like an orange.(Fling meamongst the stars:the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
Van GoghSlip intothe first vestige ofmorning, theblush of a summer'sday already aglowalong you—your silhouetteglistens, an aureoleof molten goldas sunflowers puddleat your feet.
PolarisThis nightis black, like acrow;and as a hand-printbleeds againstfogged glass,she calls to you—an echo ofwhat once was.Haunted bya half-truth, back-alley eidolon,this nightis too dark toguide you home.
Little FuryThe storm throws you to my door, drenched and bloodied, god-light dimmed. The crest of the hill is underwater. You have no boots. Morning dawns cold, clear, a watery gold. You are gone.
Prelude Nocturne;I conjure the moonas dusk crests, a wave across the sky I am lovely and lonely in the night, shadow- shackled to the mountainsideand the mothsunfurl their hamsa-wings asmama calls me in.
CassiopeiaThe sickle moonfalls, and I blossomhenna red.
IcarusFledgling of thefour-winds; feather-lightagainst ajaundiced sky(dawn is quietwhen the noose istight).
ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
On Wanting Everything to Be RightYou got too comfortable,forgot he could make mistakes,and set your consciousness asideso he could mend the thoughtswhich have remained disorderedin your fumbling sobriety,despite the years of learning to copewith the pace of regularity:scraping the mailbox with his key,dining out every Sunday,setting the thermostat to sixty degrees,and changing despite every effortto remain apathetic about his plans,how your name became a constantin his living equations,the variable which defined the function.On the morning you leave,only your luggage and body will movethrough the summer shadowsof oak leaves shaking in a breeze,and only your barest senseswill know the satisfaction of hearinghis footsteps behind yours,cicadas composing another song,a car door slamming shut,the engine firing up,though your muscle memory isn't enoughto bring you peace or independence,money or place or dignity.When you turn onto Justamere Road,you'll picture the nightstandon your side of the
PeonyAlone, but forthe red boots marchingthrough mycathedral heart: Iam beating echoesin this city of thelost. Ghost-stepping little girl'sdreams, I visit mamain the night; butflowers and wine won'tpay for her light.
DuskCrowning glory aflame,a golden QueensurveysJeweled ladiesrevel in the comingof night.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
The WriterHe lived through prophetic fever dreams.
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
Antebellumcalm seasput the sailboatsat ease,and lead themto where thesky cracks withthunder.
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen surge of ocean, I become what your girlfriend thinks I am: drinking alone, forgetting your name until it flowers from my blackberry throat I wash my tangled hair in your kitchen sink, malingering
indulgencei will peel away every individual shade of colourin this seven-thirty pm skylike stickers on empty beer bottles in the spacebetween your anklesi will drink down this crescent moon cocktailand get tipsy on night air,clinging to my skin and summerwill run through my veins(quick-stepped, hurryingbut i don't want winter to come)and sometimes i'll look down and realise that my fingers are still sticky with sunsetsbut i never want to be clean,not ever again.
Alivefarthest from my mindis the thought of turning backand drowning in a sea of thoughts,struggling for air -i do not want my mind possessed,with whispers of ‘never, never’rustling within me like a taffeta skirtacross the floor –instead,i want to be alive,not simply breathing –a survivor, not a victim.
evolution poembut I believe to seek unbecomingis more cultivated than stretchingout the leaky fibers of a semi-circular self-image until theyspiral into uncontrollableforests, cauterizing eyelids;yes, unbecoming,like picking bones outof a salmon's chest.
david and ruth laskini have to be honest;seeing you has always felt likelooking inside a cityscape, nightlight kaleidoscopeand i've grown accustomedto fragility and our literal,nanosecond dalliances.we flicker on and off at the speedof improbable, dysfunctionallight. i have to be honest;i am honestly afraidof your sorrowful sighs, and eclecticgaze, though eerie and off in itslissome niche, still crawls under my skinand plants little foxgloveswhere i can never find them.you worry after events so impossiblethat your aura of floral huesgiggles and reminds youthat kept-secret cardamom leaves have stayedfor as long as you askedand let you sleep soundlessly withmidnight traffic lullabies. morning,we both know, is tainted with the dull mauveof my departure and now that it's timefor yours, i have to be honest;you mustn'tgrieve.you are more than a secretthat will be forgotten with the creakof a silent grandfather clock, and yourpetals, my sweet, your beautiful petals,still grace me in
hallelujah .:commish:.Storm--and the desert inhales,inebriated on an atmosphere thickwith electricity and promise.Each tiny daylight isa new rapture.They tremble.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.