Grave Contortionism

 

From the place within you
that starts talking to you
with an unfamiliar voice
telling you

“I am your Within.”

Gravitate. Grab ahold
of it like a
drink or grace.

Then watch it collide
with the neighbor’s house,
the unassuming wall,
the sun as it is neither
rising
or setting.

That tree looks like a torso
hypnotized into the ground,
with one branch moving up high
and another moving low
and everything is blowing
all
at once.

I am on my knees
begging for
a new
life or at least
some leverage.

Sacrifice has made my soul too
thin and brittle and about
to break. It is time
for me to scar something.

Are you available
to come over and play?

Unhinged collisions
will fall from the sky.

The sky needs to be pulled apart
into two pieces,
one to fit in each
river down.

The river of sludgy lies.
The river of cold wet truth.
Which river will hold on
to your shimmering alabaster
thighs with stalkless barnacles?

Inside stockings live my kneecaps.
Inside my hand lies a gun
metal alloy.

Inside my heart a spasm
that points to a black hole,
a red rib cage grave marker,
a spasm of light and dark flowers.

 

 

 

 

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