Replicant

My skin always rejecting itself
tiny open wounds, blemishes,
holes to another world
I’m full of them
it’s chaos down there
organized, but not understandable
my mother always warned me
said I don’t want scars
and here I am pocked and
marred, the relic of
restless hands over an
itchy strangers skin

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Fifth Moon

It came to me
As if in a dream
Moving swiftly
Ever closer and
I can’t close my eyes
I’ve never felt this
Far from the dawn

I’m dreaming in shapes
Closer to you
They move me forward
They push me
And pull me
I never came to
Such a state as you

Folding over me gently
Crying out in silent ways
I’ve found your boat
Drifting on the water
I dreamt I found myself
I dreamt it was never over

Sometimes I feel
I’ve gone too far
To return
Sometimes I dig
My hands deep in
The earth

I’ve never felt more
At home than
Lingering in
Your filth
A lilac scent to me

Thinning World

In the long and lonely pines
I found the thrum of a heartstring
beating on the branches that were
bending in the wind. I plucked it out
on thin and gossamer webs, strung
it out cross trees and paths, strewn with
gold and green confetti, the woodland’s
decorations for a dying year. I danced
and stalked and sang and walked
and found the earth damp and willing
under my feet. I found the water well
and chilling and lapping at our meet.
I found the Viking grim and grinning and
wishing to dance with the sweet and
fragrant moonlight that was spilling,
round and puddling at our feet.
I long to be in the land ripe with gold,
yet I cry for quiet forrest morning too.
To play god and goddess together in
the rod and the goodness and sparkling
dew. And the grey is swelling, pregnant
with the tears that will shower the dying
world and cloak it with deep, velvet
sleeping–the night in darkness and the
Shining Sickle gleaming and reaping.

“Suddenly I have tears”

These are the good times, the high times.
Honey balm on my heels,

The serpents bite doesn’t sting so much,
And I’m really trying not to get caught

Up in pheromones and throaty moans,
Because I can’t tell when I’m crying

Out in ecstasy or pain. I’ve always
Been wondering about all the death;

I birth what can become life. I’m just
A dream of a machine and I still

End up letting you into these good times;
Showing my nakedness and I won’t

Ask to be covered because somehow I’ve
Got to get you to see me and

I just don’t want it to hurt so much.

Post-stress

So tired,
the weight of a damp world
sopping on my shoulders–and
who put that bloody towel about my neck,
but my stained hands alone–who else could have
waked the beast already wandering in
dreams of devouring whole psyches full,
who fed the monster weary food for thought,
as lines in broken plaster, stolen in order to
hold up her own house of lies–and now my eyelids
sag with the sands of annihilated glass sent
back to the dust from whence it came
and there went rationality with it; but
doesn’t Othello teach what seams of reason
can undo when passion has been
sown up? How could any other mirror be
except one found in my own tears,
drowning in a lake of my self-fullfilling prophecy–
alive as a god,
tired as the beast.