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Array
(
[sid] => 109615
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Chronic Birth
[time] => 2005-11-12 23:12:32
[hometext] => I like to let my poems speak for themselves
[bodytext] => My mouth full of graves I speak to the dead To stay alive a little longer. This was how you spoke, Father as if your body would surface from a tranquil sleep but still let sheep slaughter their hooves through your stomach. Just another breathing apparition these beating tongues, these roaming, bulbous eyes. They watched you with their kaleidoscopic third eye. Watched where you lay beneath spotted sheets, the pink flowers curl, devour a bit of flesh the bed’s slow flaxen jaws open wide before paralyzing you in a stoic embrace. You spoke of pain it lived as tiny men collaborating within your bowels, an Indian powwow, the trace of a last ghost dance circling towards the heavens. You spoke of pain as living in a cabin in an igloo buried under a half-inch of snow, you wanted it trapped in a block of ice and left frozen. Now, you beckon towards me hovering, I watch the empty socket of earth greet you with a black smile beaten back and washed clean the grey morning suspends a few ragged notes between the teeth but they lower your body like a sinking ship caught in endless struggle. Caught in the algae of youth and fertility this world passes unnoticed, passes as one closes their eyes to the sun passing and already passed you and I, mentally decapitated but joined intermittingly at the waist. The cemetery, Dante’s savage ritual, becomes an omen but you no longer fear burning from the inside out I’ve already wrestled the words from your mouth and spoken to the dead. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 146 [topic] => 43 [informant] => mel25 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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