Portrait of a Gemini (analog collage)

Ex-Voto

Call it “flesh vessel”, oil forming
rings around the stomach
of her papoose, a rind of thick skin
heaven knows it holds together so
what  mouth knows to be soft
fruit, a tang, fur-lined olive

a fistful
of holly in a sea of moths
─the exact moment light bends
into phosphor & slow decay

I think She, or Radiant Hummingbird
her intense sun, prays to thickets
of pulse trapped in the blood
of Mayan gods—she stretches
her breasts to meet the tongue
earth shaking between the knees

Call it “honey temper”, simmering
in her saliva, ointment or salve for
mosquitoes—all utterances slick
with hum her vulvae spreading
to receive flowers

FAULT LINES

Don't bring to me water when I am parched/ nor milk to my lips

to make these lips more desirable/ what stirs the vocabulary

dust leaves behind?/ or venous geography of our air sacs/ or

the topography of my primal skins/ give to  me a trembling flame/

or death as personification of a vigilante/ O' bird/ you've gone

and done it now/ these lips pull back/ laugh bird-struck

VIVISECTION

excerpt from A Skin Chance in the Gash Matter

This poem can be viewed here:

Dusie Advent16 Day 11

VIVISECTION

I want this poem to be cut-up and stitched into something taxidermists would be proud of.

            

Do not vanish into an organ, little bunny. Long for no survivors.
     This thought relies on taut skin and a necrotic flush of fur.

   

 We wrote in our journals eat me, or at least parts of me.

She sold me even before I was out of her womb. My ear was already half-bitten. Milk teeth sore with weak. I lost them on a bed of stones. Do you remember shards of gems the color of opal? Gumming at centipedes and millipedes, my heart forlorn with wilted petals.

              

I want this poem to know exactly what its innards look like.

I want the openness of skeletons. See this? A curve of precise scalpels, steel-plucked iris.

  My bunny-vision in ultraviolet. A frightened white eye. A pupil of stun. Stunned, little bunny, stun.

           

I want to turn my tongue inside out, taste backwards.

GREEK AVANT-GARDE POETRY

up at BIG BRIDGE