Sunken skin in the after-light, a withered itch: fog, gums; hellish wholes, the city, alive: a Siberian sandstorm spattered yellow, caked Chinese orange, whirlwind muck, cleansed in dirt. Line of red. Storm of electric lights: uptown is a vanished smother. I drank southern beaches, posed, tight in black, smooth, skirting the vortex of luxurious bones: smoke pores, strip, and Russian meat on the deck at dusk. The seaside, hope stricken in the villa, castrated, bloodied by words: glued shards of glass ridges on the periphery. Or, the margin.
For a Worm's Night
I, in a ragged delirium, scrape open her chest, sear flesh from fabric; she, the wing-chopped lark left alone in rotten Eden: blasted white. Lark speaks of worm-meat, flecks of bark, insect orgies; by night ticks and shivers like popping bubbles crack, weeping for dawn. But, ancient dawn, she says, is an obliterated blench, just a horde of sealed lips within this city of beggars. Rigid, was the word she moaned when we found her parched, fists clenched around mushed rinds. Her hands, blood-brown stumps, spent her gnarled knuckles ripping sand from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Yet, when I recall how she sang, strings dangling with mumbles, do I wrest myself, again, from the grind, and slither the tear, to the slit and sleep a worm's night in the infinite gulf of her living breast.