little universe.

Viscous hours
and vespertine seclusion,
the translucent interspace
between pipe dreams
and gaunt reality.

A tempest of technicolor chaos
and fractured interims
tainted by inkstained
remembrance.

Draw the curtains shut
so the grim streetlight can’t reveal
what I’m asking to ignore.

Close the door behind you
and lock me into an opiate
quarantine of revery,

illusory demesne
of perfect memory.

The gentle surreality
of your phantasmal embrace
can’t transcend
this perilous solitude

nor the mournful sunrise
that brings these
wounds into light.

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For M-Wherever You Go

Always missing you.

47littlecoldstones

when you’ve packed

your last doll,

the one with Sharpie lashes,

that still smells of

powder and your elfin smiles

please don’t tape it shut

I know that

when fear

sits and sets its head in my lap

I’ll need to reach in and

trace those lashes

and breathe in your scent

of little fingers and soft hair


when you’ve cut the

final ribbon and darned the last

toe box of your pointe shoes

please save the needle and thread

for me

there are canyons to close

and I need to stitch

this held breath and gasp

of tears


after you’ve closed

your pen

and all of your words

are done arranging themselves, I must have the cap

my words and smoke of

memories need

space to burn

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Dear Artemisia

Today
I wrote of you.

the deathrush of your trembling hand
a terrible slash of vengeance and silver
that drew a thin lash
of rancid blood
indelible stain
on your tempestuous heart.

Today I wrote of you
and at once you drew away
the winding sheet of memory,
asked me again to remember
the night I became
Diana’s inverse twin,

the blood
of my murdered covenant,
and the seraphic nightingales
that sang to me from the doorway.

I had almost forgotten.

You knew better than to amend
the shredded hope of your juvenescence,
to abide the ghastly concupiscence,
the divulge of wine-stench flesh
into your innocence,
the sacred purloin
of your nethermost.

You kept a knife by your bedside
and with the thumbscrews of his promise
in your fingertips,
cried the truth again
and again.

You did not slash his face
into the shadows,
but pointed your unadorned hand
and called him by name,
immortalized his ignominy
and your own unconscionable fortitude
in every stroke
of crushed petals and blood.

Teach me, Artemisia

how to come to arms
to throw open the drawer
and take hold of my hate
how to paint his face
upon the tableau of history
and seize my own wretched ghosts
as allies for every woman

who sleeps with silver under her sheets.

I am understood ?

Vertiginous welter of lingual interplay,
and my head’s rolling on its brittle axis
and I’m stumbling through a labyrinth
of demiurge illuminations and taciturn mouths.
And as hours flee from the crepuscule of hope to starless void
I’m chasing whispers that evaporate
into august nothingness,
scraps of meaning that flee from urgent fingertips.
The sedulous persistence that brought me to this
apogee of babylonian damnation
won’t break my fall.

Do you understand what I’m trying to say ?

These walls know something you don’t honey,
and you better get used to it,
pressing your fingers to the cracks,
asking for doors
where there’s only ever been
millennia of unutterable secrets.
Indelible quiescence carved into a sibylline face.
You’re a half-raised fist, ill-fated gesticulations
infantile phrases that can barely
make it past your quivering lips.

Does anyone comprehend a smile these days?

I don’t need fervent pantomime to make my point,
or to implore the strange antique portal
trembling in its obdurate frame.
Just tell me that you’ve been there,
on the tremulous crossway between illumination
and dismal obscurity,
that belligerent skulls of ireful diatribes
never forced your eyes to the ground,
that you know these roads and streetposts

even if you never found out the name
of the ancient stones rolling on under your feet.