a.n.g.s.t.

angst is a special sort of being

reserved solely

for

17

~

that crystal cusp of youth

somehow forgotten

at

18

~

a universe of chances

cracked dash

and

running on empty

~

silent scream

lovesick sigh

obsidian laughter

and

cotton candy tears

~

angst is a special sort of being

begot in each heart for

just

one

year

~

g.v.

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untitled 8

 

lonely is

the moon on tuesdays

alone is

earth’s burning star

lonely is

the kale in her salad

alone is

arugula

lonely is

the muscle among organs

alone is

the harpsichord

 

g.v.

lonely corner

 

campbell8

The cement is dusted, crusted with dead plants. Mutely they speak of life, of beauty, of decay. Dust we are. To dust we return. I push the sage door openly softly. I behold an opulent spider’s empire: swinging silk and bulging blood. The sensual sheika seduces innocents flies:forever ensnared. Never to flee, to fly again. Soft pink shelters death. Lady killers dream and die. Blue veined matriarch orchestrated her offspring: some she will devour, some will devour her.

A stale wind seeps through my skin. It lands on my tongue, ancient and frigid: hidden caverns and forgotten sepulchers. This sepulcher is stocked with powdered life and buried beans for some distant disaster. Or perhaps they will aid a dated god in his quest for paradise. Milk should flow richly, creamy not huddle ashamed.

This god is buried to buy bodies. Skinned, carved, devoured. Somehow-still alive? Torn by rusted staples and clumsy nails. Suffocated under running stone. Festooned with cotton candy. Mourned only by falling leaves. Trees ripped from rich earth and deep water shed their covering to cry. Left alone to drink stone. Darkness to devour their emerald eyes.

Deranged. Splinter decay. Rage ice. Shards splatter like tears.

They melt down

down

deep

into cement dust.

seedling.