Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Sauerkraut (4)

i’ve got turned up cabbages
and a torn out harvest
protruding from my center

a place where i go to touch, sometimes

they hold me there,
trying to revitalized my dead body
the bareness of my empty
seemed like ghost had came by now
and got the best of my loveless kisses
choruses out in screams, and hair burnt white

touching me smooth,
stroking me deep

Devil makes a mean pot roast
wholesome with his full foot
i choked it down into swallows
i make me good and full

(it rains here sometimes, in autumn)

and i catch, with big wide open hands,
all my teardrops

careful not to drown
in puddles of my quick fear
careful not to land in the pit of broken leaves
that are soon to frost over

i can’t tell if the rain is clear,
or blue
and if i am still here

if i bellow out my destitute
will it diminish into depths
of sour tongues, coated over
with the sweet mornings of may

(Pastor dressed up on Easter Sunday)

i sat, and let the tears patter down
on the rooftops of my head
(i am coupled whispers)
the taste on dangerous lips
touching me smooth,
stroking me deep,

i am quiet, and still
cold and bitter

there are waves crashin’
sendin’ rivers turnin’
and oceans swingin’ into gulfs

where i lay my naked babies
in the water of an old song

easily lost in submergence

i admire their lifelessness- (in adoration)
i am quiet and still
cold, stark, and bitter

it’s the brink of dusk
harvest time has come

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