Seeds Sewing Sentiments

This quiet desperation
These camera lens eyes have developed fractured tears
That rush like a furious rainfall running down the stairs
After curling the edges of filmstrips piled high in the attic; Yellowed memoirs
Often left unfinished, though not for a lack of trying
Unseasoned years littered with coffee and cigarettes, bent and tangled dreams, and the chill of injured shadows…
I have built myself into a mishmash of corridors that lead into limbo –
Paper mache covered cliches keep me safe from myself
I need to find my eyes again
Dig them out from beneath these mounds of frozen ground
Where earth and carcass of bird are tethered solid until spring
Feathers spread like delicate pointy daggers, or barricades, or compasses
Innocence and bittering rippling in the wind…
This deadness is quieter than falling snow –
Tastes musty on my tongue, and my fingers are blue
Not because it is minus ten degrees, but from holding onto the coffin
It’s backwards, exactly –
Others push the coffin away, while in dreams I wander among lush sprays, of which to adorn mine
But I guess that it is with the unknowns that I feel the most alive
My arms full with the familiar plumpness of unpleasantness, and a disappointment bouquet
Dead petals dripping soft darkness…
It is my corrosive tendency to take the route of punishment –
I take my traumatism and my wounds seriously
Plaster and stitching needle, antiseptic, apologies, and lilies by my bedside
To cobble the disrepair that’s maliciously beautiful…
I can’t bear the feeling of failing you
I can’t suffer you leaving
I pinch and pierce, dig and claw, shove you back against the thorns
Keep you far from me
Devour seed, sever roots, irrigate weeds
Reopen scar tissue with pendulating fingers, and an orphidian tongue…
Dance with tomorrows funeral; Lime liquor on my lips, as they feed the air with sloppy syllables
While my incoherent fingers knock over the pawn –
And it rolls across the checkered floor, bouncing off of rooks and horses, like a flailing top in a hedge maze…
I want to stuff my bones with sugared stars
Fill my veins with cherried passion
Leave the rotting of these seasons to the stones and lambswool –
Wrap it snug and deep, weigh it down, to quiet my temptations, so I can sleep…
The bones are gone
There are no bones to hold me
The tongues hold on
The stories that they told me –
A thousand burrs in a field, among the crumbling stalks
Beneath the threadbare sky
Dot my grueling mind
Estranged lips spitting dandelion parachutes, that float and land, to seed
Malignant crust, that sprouts cholera mind
And
Cemetery eyes