Wednesday, 15 April 2020

the fungal that talked

unto us it poured its
green heart and we
jumped over its glowing
veins and declared
'succulent'.
dry interiors
breaking a fast
into a slow ended
wind; where my lined
heart bleeds and your
bad intentions turn
silver.
i am your poem witch
with magick words
and lumps of
disappearing wisdom.

together at last
is my skin to
these lucid bones
where i married
the earth;
once and
again.


this will be my last poem

so that i remember. because before melted steel, there was hand-made, better, buttered words. we can decide if new spaces beneath me can qui...