Apollo’s Lyre

You come in sevens and tens leaving   me on fours, all accounted for and attuned  Hieroglyphic fingers, and that string   is a yolk stretching my limbs on crossbars  The space in between is my heaven  laurels and wreaths, and you, my god 

capturing Venus

She only comes alive when spring is near.   When light drips Aurelian, the air looking of primrose. It makes one think of rolling waters, bronzed buds; dampened moonbeams sculpted on torsos, her planted mounds atop my flesh. She badgered me with peach-stricken kisses, claret curls of her tongue. Smothering me until I was blue and…

cut

A slick and clean nick of the skin, horrified brown eyes.   She is hurting for you, but you relish in that red. Cold water sizzling on tormented flesh   A flap of dilapidated prints melded with iron. One quick stroke of the ragged metal was all it took   All it took for you…

rack and the screw

I, myself, forgot I even existed.  I have attached meaningless things to my name, filled my home   with unwanted trinkets, neglected memories. But I have not forgotten you.   Those sunken eyes. I’d have killed myself trying to see you again, in that sluiced town   which held nothing but murky waters. The name is one I’d become familiar…

but colorless. Colorless

I avoid mirrors at all costs. I cannot stand the sight of her, the way she looks. Those ghastly hips and foul teeth, sunken lids with irises the color of contaminated mold. She writhes and speaks such nonsensical things, I do not understand her. She does not understand her. A twenty five year old placenta,…