Frozen Ink

Lips flowered with scabs,

scabs layered like paper-mache.

Ether and chloroform and iodine

drip down over blood that's

nothing but a flimsy cup of powder.

Blue bonnets rise near the sun

and the constellations extend

to my throat, gurgling over with

forbidden words.

Shh, shh. Quiet.

Quiet when your broken wrist

is smeared 'gainst the wall

under smug palms, sweaty with

the noticeable absence of passion

and a dead letter crossing through

his eyes.

Molecules of water that has broken

dribble maliciously over the

floorboards harboring hubby's needles.

And the fetus is without a stomach,

but rather a coat hanger in its place.

The umbilical cord strangles mother,

stained with rosacea and patched like

an unwilling pair of sewing tools with

thyme and holy water.

Die down and erect a new sense of

how one is born into the barren nest

for death-heads and grotesque vision.

I see chalk outlines of my broken body

underneath the black light which beams from

the ignorant heavens from left of Broadway and

two streets down from Hollywood.

Better feel more up to it soon,

here he comes. He has a gun.

Empty barrel, blank round.

My intentions have always,

always been better than

just “good”.

Like a timeless, unspoken truth,

scribbled in blue ink on my neck,

as a reminder.

A rapacious reminder of frozen clouds

installed in those broken capillaries

under my fated fingers and chilled,

cube of a heart.

Crushed, countless spirits like

ice in a cracked wine glass.

I've a silken spindle wrapped

'round these little, vengeful hands

and it's unraveling as a splinter

caused by the sugar-laced sun.

So tasteful in a dressy nightgown.

Peignoir, soft pink, like a jar of rotting

petals, use(d) once, then destroy(ed).