After death, the post mortem
fairy wraps her fanciful dactyls
around my ankles and yanks me
from never netherland
to the mythic empirical dream.

I land unceremoniously
on a monosyllabic floor
that contradicts itself
whenever tragedy strikes,
however hard the fall.

This room is unnaturally bleak:
there's a mountain of clothing
just out of reach, a vapid cloud
between my teeth, a trickle
of blood running hot and sweet.

As a concept, action signifies
an attractive proposition, a bed
in which abstinence grows weary
and wilts beneath the nascent fire
inherent in my waking thoughts.

In practice, I slither further toward the predictable
unknown, roll myself into a collaborative scripture,
breathe the ambiguity of abject expression
to complement the sapid smile defining my day.
I put my fingers to those lips and delight in the darkness.

03/08/2016

Posted on 03/08/2016
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