moonmilk precipitates
somewhere in the siskiyou mountains
in the deep end of southwestern oregon,
among massive waterfalls
and lavender-dusted honey fields
i rolled down my window
to algebra suicide
and arrived upon a hill
of kaleidoscopic limestone caves
where i discovered ancient remnants
of myself hidden
in moonmilk crevices.
the dripstone cave structure,
glittering
engulfed me with finger fluting lines
on clay surfaces,
and creamy carbonate minerals,
i yearned to nourish myself
by licking.
winterwhisper
showered in lace frills
the cotton silk gossamer
twists, unfurling
into sheaths of ghostly
white ringlets
curls of smoke descend
invading the now-ashen asphalt
dewy with rainsweat
a slight steam
withers itself
in perpetuity
the hare slumbers on
the moist mint grass
hail to the town
beneath a bridge of roses
silent turkeys splaying themselves
crouching beneath secret trees
the silken sewn veil
unwraps itself,
as if in an ecstatic
delirium
secret music
i lie naked on my bed
strewn in a golden light,
shining from the godless sun
on my damp skin.
neurotic,
i plummet my black leather heel
onto a mote of dust
and my slender fingers
fidget the wine glass stem
tempted by borrowed luxury
and drunk, aching sweetness.
the frankincense coils of smoke
rise and jolt from my lighter's flame
lulling me in a daze.
i lay bare,
without a god, peering into
my mirror's reflection, i blush–
and drift through visions,
enamoured by the eternal
birth of a woman
i almost recognize.
dionysian solitude
upon the city
the glimmering star's
immaculate light gleams.
i sat atop the cement statue
of venus and bacchus:
desire and intoxication,
frozen under a crimson red sky.
love. . .
i flutter my little angel wings,
with misty molecules
splayed into the ether,
and that particular madness
that glowing night.
a kind of rot
i was sickly sweet,
tender.
then drowned out, beaten,
undone,
by human atrocities and a brutal insistence.
the gangrenous foot encroaches,
and the maggot wriggles.
Symbol of Thanatos,1
demeaning.
teary eyes,
diseased lungs,
ruddy withering
bedbound limbs,
and mouths of pus.
a metamorphosis
meant nothing
under the machinery of ailments.
i wanted to achieve eternal bliss
a flock of social misfits
spread across the concrete,
held me like a dying baby.
political revolutionaries
chanted soliloquies,
maternally,
as i slipped into hypnogagia.
recreational druggies,
publishers & purveyors of the obscene,
brilliantly demented indeed…
art is not a luxury,
no
a survival instinct.
little dead bodies
i was never a mother
but i named you anyways.
i imagined you as one whole
collective,
Eleanor.
four babies in one
fetus-in-fetu2
strange and tiny
skeletal masses.
gelatinous fishy creatures,
hidden,
writhing between brain tissue.
a millennium ago,
would you have been eaten?
worshipped?
sacrificed?
your terrible horrors.
i imagined all of you
conscious, aware,
swimming joyfully
inside the one fragile fetus,
closer to pure divinity,
than hermits hidden
in monastic mountain caves.
gutsnake
a diseased alimentary canal
imploded from inside,
shielded gently
by thin mucosal layers.
pressurized
infinitely abscessed,
sloughing in chemo turmoil.
strangling me,
squeezing me sufficiently,
like a snake,
then drowned,
by its warm, slippery flesh.
tortured
by its complete and superior
apathy
to human mortality.
roses on ice
when the rest of the world slept,
we secretly convened
in the frosted garden
dewy with moss
damp beneath our feet,
and meltwater threaded between stones
running from the morning thaw.
we held each other, unsure,
hugging in cold air,
the smell of rose petals on ice drops,
juniper berries,
and your nightingale scent
on your scarf,
emanating, enmeshing
with my little beating pulse.
my lipstick waxen kisses
upon your blushing cheek
and your warm breath
seeking solace upon my neck.
motionless,
under that purple all-knowing sky.
you brushed a tear from my face
with your gloved thumb
leaving a streak of mascara on the leather.
the glass ornaments in the trees
clicked in the wind,
next to pearly flower globes.
soft as someone clearing their throat before speaking.
———
1this poem is based off of my experiences working as a nurse, and how my encounters with decaying flesh reminded me of the greek God Thanatos.
2this poem is based off of the rare medical anomaly intracranial fetus-in-fetu, more specifically a real case of a baby born with three intracranial fetuses-in-fetu with multiple well-defined organs. see: radiograph, CT scan, specimens
3