My ribcage
is a coffin for the little birds...
This day, Winter sat upon the land,
Its bloodless knife sitting in its open hand...
These are the words
If I was heart-dizzy, then I meant them...
Contentment is not on my roster
Too close to the world...
Trust not the words which were wrought,
By sinners soul...
Cold is the wind on this dusty soil,
Cold is the wind on these restless waves...
She is the name we do not speak,
The ghost-mirror in our intercourse...
Through the veil of a thousand lines I see
pushing the membrane outwardly...
Murder-eyes look into me and say
like heresy, hear-say...
Lost connection,
Grey flesh, concrete...
The driving hallucinatory fields,
Wheat, sun, arching sweating skies...
I am many-fanged
I capture my moods in glasses...