Word Jam #11

She's writing down her thoughts,
and, more disconcertingly, mine
And she's stripping me naked
along every line



October #2, first draft

October #2

we share the same
button up 
black trench coat

she goes out
leaving me writing

I go out, leaving her 
working on her clay jars,
jars she'll bury 
in the four quarters
of our grounds

is that the Wild Hunt,
sweeping over weeping treetops?
graveyard whistling
until that 
pristine frontier
of a winter's day

curled and cracked 
parchment balm 
. . .



A disheartening of crows
gathered in winter fields.

Naked trees 
from disused rail road tracks,

dark stains
on white linen.

In trust we are led
through this stark terrain,

senses soaked
in sparse liquor,

a hungry air tasting our flesh,

a murmuring 
of hardened, thirsting 

They rise, wheeling,
across the sky,

black flecks of mortality
in widening whites of eyes.


Raw Mojo

Raw Mojo

The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind 
licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves.
Buried beneath a pine cone, needles.

Drink 'til I can drink no more;
just watch the dead
impose in plagues.

A girl, dark, unfamiliar,
dares to draw the focus
of these phantom scarred eyes,
blood rushing in her alluring anonymity.

A taste of ash, I eat my father.
I am an amalgamation 
of anecdote and mannerism.
Assimilated slow and left to boil.

Magisterial day. Insouciant night.
Sin suggests an arbitrator. 
I need a new translation,
from the prophet's native tongue.