what flavor is your death squad leader?

it is holy; your effort.

the weapon that Cain wielded -

it has to be around here somewhere, right?

It’s only ever then

that we swallow the stain -

it must be a form of prayer, bright.

When the soil asks for my salt,

I don’t know if it wants my sweat or my tears.

I don’t know if it wants resentment or resilience;

bitterness, or brilliance but

I know it wants the focus of my fears.

The canyons call for carbon,

hoping for a husk to harden -

what could grow in its garden?

The hills howl for hydrogen -

aching for an amen again and again

but whacked the wheels of when.

When the atmosphere asks for my asylum,

I don’t know if it wants my armor or my anthem.

I don’t know if it wants my vulnerability or my value;

my tempest or true but

settled in her nest and

eyes on sight.

Looking at me like she never understood;

like, she completely missed the plot -

setting fire to the godwood;

like…

I think she missed a thought?

She’s a mirage - there and not

and it doesn’t matter if it’s real.

The ax forgets but the tree remembers,

and I remember watching

her handle hewn in a honeymoon,

her core committed to the cocoon.

Confused her womb for the earth

and waited for a welcome waning worth.

Light let in too soon,

mind mapped messy;

Inside a monsoon

hanged a manic halo heavy.

It hinges in her hunger,

it tilts towards her thunder,

it wanders in her wonder and

while it weakened my wild;

So excited to watch you bloom.

I’ll be here and I’ll shut up,

despite the detection,

I’d dispel your deplume.

I’ll be here when you glow up,

When you get up,

When you pick up and bottom-up.

I’ll be here when you show up -

grieving giggles into gloom?-

that’s not what you’re made for.

You’re made for the chaos.

You’re made for Prometheus.

You’re made for deviance.

You’re made for breaking, and bending, and beginning;

You’re made for surging, and sharing, and sinning.

You’re made for growing, and glitching, and grinning.

Bury me beneath it all, beneath the rubble, beneath the busted bubble; bury me beneath the trouble, mourn my mask in the madness muddle.

Easier to arrest my aorta, colonize my coronary with color, vacate all vitriol from my ventricles - a glimmering genocide; a dazzling diaspora; a scintillating slaughter.

and my blood has had enough.

Skin is sinking and settling south;

I think I’ve had enough.

Is this my body?

Am I my body?

Am I the bones that make me?

Or the fat, the water, the electricity?

Am I the processing of dreams,

the instant I Know an answer,

am I the muscle memory of Being?

I can be It and Not and;

burning bridges and burying the brave.

gospel gave grief and grasped its glaive,

fucked the flock that fathomed he forgave.

shamed the skin as sin to sicken the slave;

deals in decay and damning the dead deprave.

wrathless and weakness - weapons to waive,

praise the days his gaze pointed to the Other.

praise yesterday for the loss of Mother.

litter the livid -

viscid and vivid;

I love you with my lungs.

luck-lust lunatics

lacking labor limits -

I love you with my lips,

lisping though the lines

minding the mad minutes.

With my kidneys -

kissing chaos crossed with karma.

I love you with my appendix

and we don’t really know what was for even

but it’s yours.

Yours;

every ventricle vibrating,

every atrium aspirating;

heart holy

suffers the surrender of the savage;

do you feel the riot receding,

paved for a pale passage?

The war drum beat of

your heart abates, misstates

the melody as misery of memento mori;

glissando grieving given

Some days I want the tender, give me a mellow magic softer than the curve of the crescent dancing on your lips.

Some days I want the fracture, give me a fractal format broken into pieces that don’t fit, give me a puzzle piece pushing passion instead of poetic peace.