baby deer nursing
୨୧ old poetry i had done for the poetry contest i entered last year, and other works
୨୧

Some angel of this fading sun
must have been so sick
puking a thundering smear of black and pale
Inflamed with rain
This permanent eclipse hanging over us
The lush grass
In this cemetery fed from so many downy cadavers
A supple warmth under the
meadow of graves,
My nightgown now white threads
unraveling into the wind
Feel me up under my skin
violence in me pulsating
a fervor wet and thin
Spreading over everything
a suffocating revulsion,
Drinking in the pain of rugburn
slumping down my cheeks and neck
The taste of lychee in the sweetness of shock
I never bit into the mercy of deliverance
only the biting salt of sucking on my wounds,
I am mourning this flesh
Ad nauseam
Dragging my baby body to my own grave, her battered figure
Now collecting the filth of this life
Forsaken from a funeral veil
I have no more pounds of flesh to give,
In the dimmest twilight
The sun, a sore rotted into the sky
Stained glass depicting a holy scene
’m hands and knees in the mud
my white lace socks
Folded down my calf
i thrust and maul that balmy earth
scour for that lost grave of mine
untombed and abandoned
i am the martyrdom of a dandelion
and god is the shotgun


If you could understand
i don’t think you could undo the fettering
the ruin of your cadaver
id wrap you in my cocoon
your frame and bones melting into spit and ejaculate
the freakish essence of your womb water
and you’d scream out for your father
out into the crypt walls your cries would bounce against the slate
the lanterns would scarcely flicker
no ghosts would stir
as your skin slips off the muscle
as your bones wither to milk and honey
your brain searching for mercy in your memories
as it all turns to a gush of guts
and you’re rectified
reborn into an angel of abomination
and then you’d know
if i could go back in time to see you as a baby
i would have smashed your mother's face into the sink
i would have made your father bite down hard on your crib and
kicked his teeth into his spine
and you wouldn't cry at all
and even in the night they'd rise from their graves
just to strangle you with the strings of your mobile
and break you
and then you'd know
maybe if you were born as a pink mattress, and every night
you were pissed in
for 20 years
and every night you listened to the despair of some soft body on top of you
become a car crash
and you felt the blood rust around your coils
and then one day you are thrown out into a landfill
full of other pissed on rain soaked mattresses
and every day under the blinding grey sky
you felt your stitches sore and aching
but you are a mattress in a pile 20 miles high
and you would never die
your anger quilted
so wide it could swallow the world
then you'd know.
if you were born with the need to be burned by a cigarette
if they made you twist and cry out that your rapture was here
if you cried and saw god with the heat and the pressure
and he loved you and he loved you and he loved you
he said to you with each hole in your arm
Forever long i will saint you with this misery
my baby till blue in the face and evermore embraced
then you'd know



in the scum room
the swollen walls
smothered in stigmata stains
and you're only looking into me
through a speculum
through the eye of the black sun
can you feel your way through my body
is your body the same size?
my fever stares into you
Cannibalistic
Eyes black and wide,
body full of baby's breath
a mouth full of flies
there's no penetration of my mind
that could make you understand
the burial inside of me
a hundred million maggots
liquefy my brain,
a cradle made from
this eternal terror of repulsion
a hate so thick and seraphic
like heaven caving in
my defiled colossus.
i cannot make you understand
that i have never been held
The graveborn patron saint of suffering
can you feel me in that house

stuffed inside and limp
crawl over the heaps of rotting food and trash
pulsating heat and foul rot
I remember being pinned down to that
Teddy bear carpet
and in that room, my body lays
never stirring
that hopeless crypt the closest ill get
to the feeling of a womb