Couched Terms

my bridges are burnt
snowflake ash
heavy as song
crashing upon deaf ears

With enough velocity
even the past is possible

the song can still be felt
tattooingbones
earthquake subtle

the scent of siren’s blood carries on the wind
inhaled
fragrant as powdered ammonia
coats the tongue
clings to lungs
silica soft

penlights in the warehouse

dusty beams
illuminate
provide no insight
there is no mad archivist here!

soft science
bespectacled theorists
rock hard for couches
thrust deep between the cushions
hoping to retrieve a memory
a dream

carrion cries of success
a moment unwrapped
vilolently masticated
swallowed for approval
undigested

Cartographers of deceit
these maps are unreliable
“here there be monsters”
the only labels of value
trading currency for hours
time spent drawing borders
creating that terrible rim walker
call Grendel into being
curse his knowing
These monsters are for slaughter
My bridges are burnt
use them as pyres.

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