Tuesdays

leaning on the grey side of a two-way mirror 

swimming through a pool of lime-flavored jello 

someone's clipping their fucking nails in the library

Hollow Golems

Clay constructs,
lubricated, animated,
artificially aflame with life...
shrivel into a beige, dusty pursuit of re-saturation.

It's not tremors this time.

Voids fill,

they empty,

they empty, but you didn't miss out...

an arbitrary accomplishment?

This lethargic daze has become too comfortable.

Clay constructs,

arid, dormant,

they just need other clay constructs, really...

then they aren't that hollow.

Just a normal realization, I guess.

Rope

Some macabre waltz
freckles a dim den
with pestered remembrance.

A muffled sunset
struggles through dirty glass
onto an empty windowsill, aimless.

Trying to hold onto a fistful of water.

Develop

Silver snowflakes washing downward,
collecting on a now trivial granite effigy
like dust on a park bench
in a prop town.

Lilacs vine themselves like scars on the sculpture,
mocking the mockery it was drafted to be,
its crudeness now morphed
into a stoic pulchritude.

So vigilant, the inanimate rest.

Cleared Out.

Cloud eater,
inhaling cumulus veils
in the sky, unmoored.

In clear blues, desperate,
sweepingly seeking
plenary repletion...

So in the gloom of it all,
will bring simple sunshine
at the cost of its nourishment. 

Amphibious

aqueous legs and
a fictile mind clasp
a silt center
As
its parched jaw
struggles to taste
rain encased in peridot
But
enamel scrapes from
those tiny mouth... pieces
revealing that fleshy... zone underneath
Yet
it keeps biting
gums bleeding maroon doubt
thirst intensifying
Until
not quenched by its own crimson liquid
the stone cracks
the liquid satiates
And
coppery warmth is drowned
by cool, clear purity...

It shudders.

Dust is Earth

Dust from fibers of cloth
from cotton bandages swathed,
dust with the smell of must.

Dust from piles of ash
from forests' lives cashed,
dust with a taste combust.

Dust from the flakes of flesh
from skin when refreshed,
dust with the feel of crust.

Dust from iron speckled with a color of wine
from when it, air, and water combined,
dust with the semblance of rust.

Dust from pollen the wind does carry
from now until fallen and burried,
dust in the sound of a gust.