i am in fugue
across what i'm sure
some victorian poet
called the 'salt estranging sea'.
where those things
scried are conducive to symphonies
called daybreaking; a treble note
of being light. between the taste
of dead molasses and quiet murder.
a naked woman wearing my face
turns her eyes live like
winter, like civilization,
like poverty or language.
she and i give testimony.
and after, i become natural prey
for inhumanity; like grey pornography.
my body half the scene:
sizzling, half.strapped, whipped like a snail.
all throat and lungs.
shift blades, shift skirts. ...
and i supine, all opium and the only
smoker is dementia::
in my creamfilmy noir dress; cut.
it has been my one good dress.
i could bury my children in it.
go missing for days.
why i took it off never
matters; it wears me
too sexennial to be a little girl.
rosarium, obscene almost
with bog violet, unbearable purposeful
i forget what
but it smells private.
i could drag the living
over the dying, no hide nor hair for myself.
.b.l.inking back rorschach and rohypnol.
i, a trellis of this
skeleton, blooming gunbarrels: clouds
of charcoal on the carpet, burn.
my pierced and gushing madonna on the rocks.
my beloved raped and spread for the mirror.
vision, i fit
smaller, deeper, insider.
staring at the birthmarking.
scavenger's daughter: i know
the orifice of illumination:.
the transient fog on the morning
where i lay in the slightest
space, less than one, more than
too often i laugh at the ways to discount
a person. ....
a pox on the polished darkness.
something must be torn.
i rise along the skellig,
ravenous on the edge, awake
and awakening to open the blind.
find me closer and teach me
each suffornicating word.
in the smearing
rain of impossible