i will unearth monsters,
bunch my fists into teratomas
smear false hair, skin, teeth on the places where i have
nailed the sun and moon to the coffin-lead sky
i curse your horoscope
and your nativity
will sicken under a cast of poisoned stars
let me tear back
the cloth of the zodiac
and trample the cogs and wheels of heaven,
the slow mechanics of fate, underfoot
i am Duchess of Malfi still
A rosefinch
of memory
alights, watches
him pass.
In the garden he takes a rusty hoe,
plants it as the witch
hazel nods.
His umber skin sparkles
of sweat. He struggles
in weeds, curses. Here is where
you left him
alone in the gentle ecstasy
of earth.
He kneels, beckons
to shadows.
The bone-ache
twists down,
the leaves tremble
to stillness
as he casts his threadbare words.
Hidden among irises and lilies
you’ve ebbed away, sieved by stone.
It may be that you hear him
and appear, called forth by a man
who loves you.
All legs are gone, the teen brat
lazes on the car and
the afternoon looms massive
on the whimpering retirees;
all legs are gone, all words are
off the rails
in the music there is no soul
not anymore;
all teens melt on their holidays,
young mothers scream
at their discovered age lines
fresh on the mirror
and in a college,
a critic shoots himself
because modernity has
neither heads or tails
one can hook to the theory;
all restaurants brim with scandal,
stressed bachelors
wish they could strangle
the wailing babies
and freshmen pray
for a swift serving
on the explosive monday,
all eggs are gone,
but there is solid milk
but t-shirts are quite t