Budapest
Pale, blonde phantom
In sleeping gown, I am
Barefoot at the precipice,
A cloud of invisible
Long-haired, white rabbits
Leashed, to me.
I am drowning
Deep down into the eye
Of the mind, memory’s
Glossy death,
A tiny, frozen diorama,
With a black and wild piston, in it.
And who said I couldn’t
Die inside the warm balm of a lullaby.
I have found my
Path. And am guided
By a warm terror
I dare not put down.
What Music
The crop God promised.
That I could not.
I could not.
The cry of a small bird,
The bright red seed.
Now, I am
Even.
And the world
Comes quiet.
I hold the living
Book in my hands
Walking through the black
Fields and forest
To the glossy blue lake
Of the sea.
Origin
And I will glue and wire
the smashed contraption
of my mind back:
pretty blonde skater trash.
Anxiety is mystical, it
feeds on me.
And no, I don’t
think I can make it
stop. High priestess, lead me
back beneath the warm
brine-like glittering,
underwater spit of the mind’s
sweet unraveling.