it's a little like falling.
off of a cliff, not out of bed.
heartbeats slow to a line
sons are bleeding,
weeping over their mothers
sheets to bones tomorrow
it's time for dinner.
salted waters sweat
in holes and currents
catheters funnel blood
from vessels to ships together
cracking life from scales
in the wake of dinner.
matadors thrust swords
ribbons to ribs to shreds
160 degrees of comfort.
Garden fingers pull roots
seedling hearts of daughters,
mother's gather dinner.
pastures nod to sunset
calves call again
a splatter in the pan
eyes roll back to head
black to white to red
going home for dinner.
they fall from cliff and bed.
* also, i have just made a short video from this poem. if you would like to watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVjeXXlk5bk
Nice companion piece to Earthlings.
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful and intense. You really need to channel these incredible skills, girl. The youtube vid was an exquisite dessert following the melancholy meal of your ode.
ReplyDeletethanks guys <3 i was glad that my desperate feelings of helplessness and sorrow were able to be turned into something a prettier. and rip, i am almost a dead 50/50 split of Sanguine & Melancholic :)
ReplyDeleteSanguine. Such and exotic and underused word. I love it.
ReplyDelete