Gord

2020-07-21 05:28 pm

A voice brittle, fawning,
Lost in eyes are appearance,
Yet words speak like songbirds,
Though simple, like acrostics.

If you can understand the point,
Does also your voice hurt,
 from screaming?
Do you need more caustic ideas,
 to dissolve your dreams?

My meaning, yours,
Our meeting curt, 
Can I find you feeding on lifeless birch,
With food superior for a life of wood?
Who fights against fascist sons,
Racist daughters to which they sum?
Who resolves just to be,
Sits aside until the burning stops.

What is beauty in a psalm?
Without the son, the daughter,
Is the sport lost?
Where the ice is more soft,
A cross stick, a want,
Whistle wanton, a decision.
To sit in a box, with conscious,
Or a sideline life to correspond
With your winnings.

Lynn

2020-07-21 01:31 am

devouring the skin inside my lip.
of course, everything in the human body is connected. of course.

staining the porcelain with blood and iron, iron and blood and water, the permutations of rust.

my voice becomes sticky, sickly sweet - the performance of wellness thickened even further by blood. 

my crazy, concentrated and caustic, drains through my nose and onto my chin and onto my shirt and onto my hands and down the drain. 

“i wish the blood inside my mouth were yours”.