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Chronic Birth

Contributed by mel25 on Saturday, 12th November 2005 @ 11:12:32 PM in AEST
Topic: oops

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 beds 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, Dantes savage ritual, becomes an omen
but you no longer fear burning from the inside out
Ive already wrestled the words from your mouth
and spoken to the dead.

Copyright © mel25 ... [ 2005-11-12 23:12:32]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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