Graffiti
scars like ghosts in flight leave trails of chemical dust. It’s Easter,
motherfucker. We’re praying inside layered rust, boasting backwards, growing
new tails. We are kissing the sky black. Your hair smells like pepper and
fruit. You are something eggshell ancient. We are only last year’s same tongue.
Our lips spill down sheets, suck up smoke. We’ve become our own consumption, a
metallic green god trampled by whole wolves. Fill up with trashwater. Forget
your fucking mothers. Here’s to making things last.
Those
waves sunk cold last night, lifting only because we let them. Shadows were our
undercurrent, our sharks. Give me a little skylight to burn through. Give me a
hole to fill. We will only last here as long as we want. We can last. It’s
groundless, this frame of guardians and twilight unfolding. Guard against
nothing, not the skylight, not the dormant winter, not the red hunter that
waits. Don’t wait. Wish. We are something silk even as the worms dry. Like a
prey bird, the flowers blossom against a skinned sky and dip back towards home.