Capote / Unknown Things

Capote

I live in venerable skin of temple, fermented and collapsing, 
damned and haunted by the eradication of how all at once 
you existed 
alabaster emblem coughing and leaving earthquakes 
along the potholes and sidewalk weeds,

you snuff the paparazzi,  
pelicans and pecans invading chin and belly – a bellow 
of monologue stampeding the ball of your fist like Capote 
and priest, empty pizza trays lodged like lust 
inside the pockets of your cheeks, decaying teeth

as one by one you lost Leo sunrise and moon in Cancer, 
baritone and cocoa barrage, the alphabet of erotic timing 
comforted by squirrels under sleepy hollow banks,

the way you suckled on woven fabric in a farmhouse –  

I authored my worth from how stiff your bones became 
when your fingers were plump and turned air to plums, 
and I puckered my strep throat to siphon your life like maple 
from stumpy legs that knotted roots with the libertine,

I did everything to deserve how traumatic this all became.


 

Unknown Things

I stared into his wake, and I did not dare to see anything else –

Here lies involuntary fear, the earth converging around
both births and an inactive set of lungs from a
clandestine pauper who bites, who squeezes
stumpy hands around breasts like he would an old orange –
metre of black felicity and elbows, all of which
you forgot

Deign the freckles of deity – the resulting ash on a crown
of monsters swaying and seizing the rotation of every sound
you make – your throat echoing into the waves of the ocean

My love becomes salt. My words become dry.
my heart becomes residue of sand and sediment
prophesying your complaints into correlation with
my sentiment as if those strings were attached
at the hip (or the groin) staging blocks of melted
Parisian candle wax along the downtempo trod of
inebriated flat feet that have no sense of direction and

are connected to a body with no concept of distance

I live far from famous graves and avoid the oral fixation
to lozenge on a tongue that could impregnate me
through all seven layers of death and spirit, four
little flower petals pressed like algebra between the
pages of a soiled book

I muffle the sigh of my love, as it is filled with unknown things.

*Thanks to North of Oxford for the opportunity*

One Comment Add yours

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s