the fear of infection

drives my tounge mad

carressing the culprit

willing it to morph into a harmless nuesance

rather than a dreadful curse upon the scrubbed and suclpted

clay

i claim to not care for

an envelope for friends

a thimble for enemies

a song the brook extends

along fingers of memory.

the wash of the sand

the wear of the wind

the dispair of kings

rings joy through the land.

dogs in the alleyways

wolves in the hills

faces masked in blood

fresh from the kill.

a bridge ignites, the water shouts

i look to see a leaf

swimming in the current

to my baby's disbelief.

Look into your face

when you seek the mirror's wrend

see your thimble full of enimies

and your sockets full of friends 

eddying masks in a season of hell

syphilitic decomposition of atlas membrain

strength fails under the unwaivering scorch

of frigid suns, skewering my lips closed as i speak

in defense of my unbelief to you who cannot hear

or hear and heed not,

 for other paths grasped have brought much lucid delight 

I had a dream i was Sylvia Plath...

 - i got chased around my jar by a wayward sunbeam refracting through the jars concave sides and focused into a deadly point that rotated around as the earth spun. everytime i lay down to rest i woke to its advance upon my wicked flesh and cried. i got no sleep, so now i sit in a shock treatment waiting room because women are supposed to be in the home. i definitely will never get married