there is something about discarded toys

the hollow wail sounds in her caverns

the pink of my face smeared with electron ashes but

alive, alive, alive

it is stuck in the throats

veins growing upwards, slipping towards the

sky, the crows eating the flesh off the pines

like a muscular dystrophy in their spine’d legs,

oh like the blood, oh like the leaves,

cancer, cancer, cancer

the ice stays in June, frosting the bees,

& we are scores of wasps burning the night’s soft palms and melting into the oil,

bathing in the curling brush and the naked silks

woe upon horses, shorting jumps and bucking like mules, I fought mares in the woods, their crawling shanks biting the logs as their muscles contort into black widow jowls and tongues of sand.

the shy is all around me

living on my eyes

feasting on the forked tongues splitting truths

working the lies in overtime

and she is so skinny now

wasting away to rib cages

the half of love is falling to the floor again

those coats and jackets rotting on the soft wood grain

the loop in my head of their squirming bodies

infecting the serpents on my arm

strangling the ideals and entwining with the ink

defecating from the mouth with purple lipstick and the single braid like cowboy black aluminum container emotion, hollowed out like ginger ales & weak cafe sandwiches, hollow like my bones, I am built for flight, soaring

back with the vultures, circling the corpse of our final conversation

and she is afraid of my eyes

they were her favorite

but there is nothing

left for her

here.

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