Genre: Poetry

This is what it looks like. To be moving in

every direction at once.

Punching through July heat

I must have lost my keys. Kicked in the door

and locked it behind me. Another

Old friend, I admit I do not know what the light

was like on your island, when, listening to the sea’s

murmur, you read dreams and visions

into your body; these alien myths doing

the

To get rid of acne, apply a pea-sized amount to your face, 

rub, then rinse.

For you, the pus was pea-sized:

                                                            its white-yellow or yellow-brown

De Quincey’s Botany

Delusional Epitaphs

MABEL

Here lies Mabel on the moon.

Daughter, sister, victim, and work of art:

may her milk poetics make the fangs

of the universe fall out forever

As he daintily places the stethoscope on my skin.

First the heart, my left bundle branch block(ed) heart

where no electricity has seen the light of day.

His breath is fig-marmalade sweet.

The eye was open, and wide, and writhed in a wretched way,

Not as a marble would roll out of a child’s hand, no, it writhed

Like a worm would away from its halved self.

My prettiest dress will one day

be worn by another my hip would then be

as her husband would tell her just a 

little curve in the mirror legs under

silk he says do