Wednesday, July 15, 2015

I am Christ’s overwrought Y chromosome

And Yggdrasil’s sickly branch,

The ouroboros teller.

I am the Ash.

I am Dogwood

And moonbeam.


Tomorrow I’ll shoe four promised mares

With char-blessed spits for nails

And sieve civilization away

Through the web of men.

No weapon but a

Mouth full of spit.

A Chronicle.


Things don’t escape.

So spare me your patter nosters.


For my brain, you’ve minced the tongues

Of every prayer and prophet you laid hands on.

Tallies on the walls of my mind

Number the dates.

I remain yours

In the telling,

This prehensile aping.


So silence your pipes

As I Black up

In ink:                         a vestment and hymnal

And the one spice I’ll be able to identify

Right up until you cut out my tongue.


Pardon the slippage.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015