Page 59 - Iterations:Other/Is

The king, with her librarian perplexed by a tooth of rock
began to sing
when our head hits the board of bed, a severing, severed, the weathered ends of bibles, red ink between indulgent seams of ellipses. Dear friend, here is a seed of darvocet planted within Christmas Tree Shop crystal; the dollar sticker in vacancy still scuffed. Windows cleaned, our heads adorned with your grandmothers plastic blueberries; to supplant christ you wear a crown of thorns cut from his side or the plant near her washing machine
here is a cut of New York strip, plucked from the belly of a tattoo, a ship upturned on right hip heading back towards pubic bone, the blossom guarded by vigilantes laughing over a letter of our concurrent death. An echo chamber in a casing of lamb sold to an engine ruby red. There is an emphasis to the gore and the concurrent (ute solo. You pull my hair back in a dream where we may make essay with the slow grind of hip informing hip; the author steers into an iceberg adorned with orchids, peonies and sun(owers stem cut over a bin near the cardboard bailer and when you fell out of the bed covered in shit, blind, crying, I wiped you as the red (ash made the walls a Saturn sunset and let us never meet again under this context, or the catheter covered in algae, or the history altered you made me forget about under the second blue moon in two proud months, we masturbated in the valley and on the mountain until the sovereign weeds forgot the summer rains. Ideal for growth. To know oneself under the wanton dessert of moon glow. Our dream is atonal, corn brewed beer from mossy taps, fear lightning between lighter (icks and pool stick; the setting of tons, our daughter makes a collection on bed: honey, Libra oil, and shea butter — a divination — writing nebula’s between smiles, frowns, asterisks between singularity points
slow moments she does not catch where I fall into a cut of lard at sunset\ to tell you of my father
will require cement and erasure/ a museum of my skin boiled in the #fe suit of memory a knot marked all over with coal and limestone glyphs
the beating heart of a newborn from a well forgotten and dry. or the ghost of questions deep in smoky ceremony
all of which is burned —
again,
as sun reaches summer solstice
I dip my hands into the wellspring of the #re #nally ready to become ash
to become
☼