Charnel Hope

We're doomed

Bone ground to chalk
under gravely famished knuckles
Through a mesh, into a pot
where the whirlpool just gets faster
and is stuffed with winter storms

Fermented paste
down a row of desperate spouts
increments of siphon slaves
where sit the soldiers, barrel up,
balanced to receive the gruel

We'd like to swim in troughs this way
and chalk our faces

Residue or coremost meal
snorted up like table dust
Bread, wine, and marrow
Here's a toast for ending things
Here's a toast to toss

My golden calf can burn a bush
and spit ten thousand miles in every compass point
for seven hours
My golden calf poisons oceans,
shits plague, and pumps babies full of bent metal

Mine is a bird, mine is perfect,
mine makes day out of night, heaven out of day--
but out of heaven?
Meanwhile drifts the snow of bone
softly on perfected lands
I'll hold up your mirror
You can hold up mine
We can close our eyes together
Everything is fine

We'd swim in troughs of winter storms
and pat our faces with the powder
ground from under skinny hands;
spread out over perfect lands

"Ashes, ashes"
We'd all fall down

Back