Fall comes on like a coma
a burden on the grass
to dress it, in quiet
the despair of a tortured debt
is blossoming. A flowery death
song of a thief waking me;
I leave with the coiled tear
and the cursing spit
from the widow's fire dream.
Here, the clouds diary my reflections,
their silvery eyes, now cross-hatched.
Their whites hang my powdery side
like I'm a cyclops or the nut bag
the cypress divorced. Reddened
by the weight of myself.
Sliced by a hurried bitter tongue
a slope once a mountain with its head on.
Trees whipping the silence.
The flame, you've insisted
won't straighten, like sweat
slipping away a future.
Mine is the bent spoon, laughing
daughter of the hair-sprayed eye.
The future's blue ox without
bells to ring off its neck,
the stars drowning their reflections
in a littered glitter
everyone has run away from.
Wonderful piece, Kim. I'm especially fond of this line:
"Mine is the bent spoon, laughing
daughter of the hair-sprayed eye."
I think I'll carry that phrase with me today...
Now that's some tall-ass poetry for ya! And about fuckin' time too, Christoff!
What a fun writing, Kim. It is so your voice.
yes, this is a wonderful piece.
so glad to get to actually hear you
read me some of your wonderful work.
finally