Posts Tagged ‘bones’

My eyes are dry.

My lungs feel like wool sweaters

rolled and stuffed inside me.

Spine is slowly turning into the St. Louis Arch.

Bones stiff as flint.

Muscles like ink pens, exuding

pain from the inside, out.

I’m turning into cardboard.

I’ll be arthritic

before I’m twenty.

Am I built of

more than flesh?

Then, what will remain

when I’m laid to rest?

 

A Heart of Pure gold,

and Ivory bones?

Or Papers and Books,

and a Will like Stone?

By the light of the full moon

something in me twists

and surges from bottom of feet

to skull,

pounding for release.

By pale light of day

I am shut in this blue-walled cage,

isolated.

And something pounds, claws,

beats tiny, scaly fists

against my forehead; and

something drooling and yellow-eyed

thrums and growls within my chest.

 

There are people who swallow

colonies of liquid in bottles,

who breathe in ash

and press their eyelids against

their pus-colored rotting fingertips,

but not me. These people take in new monsters.

I already have enough monsters in me.

I don’t need this world to put more in.

If I were to peel back your skin,

what would I find underneath?

Is there some sort of baby there–

howling, malnourished,

thin as cardboard with veins

bulging underneath its tomato-skin like fat worms?

Is there nothing but an idol

whose limbs operated so humanly,

but only after the pale curtain was pulled away

was the inhumanity of its brass knob joints,

rigid gold stature,

and manufactured glass eyes revealed?

Or is it human?

Is there a heart?

Small, churning

and humming like an engine;

taking shape not as a crimson fist,

but as a flickering light,

fluttering like the sun,

nestled under your skin

in the cavity of your chest.

At the Table of Dry Bones

Posted: October 22, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

At the table carved from driftwood

sits the skeleton Man.

Pale light flickers in his eyes sockets

a sort of manic ghost of a flame.

The time I met him he sat there,

grinning, and raised a tarnished chalice.

The bread on the table stank of blood

and the wine poured out from under his robe, staining it crimson.

Alone at the table,

except for the loaves of bread

and the smell of blood and smoke,

he stayed. Never had I seen a more pitiful Man.