The Snake

I want to shed my skin,
and sing under a murky light.

To bear out a shameless sin,
to scream with all my might.

I want to scream,
in a language I do not understand.

For I have no mind for words,
just the desire to stand.

But I have no power,
inside myself.

I have grown bland and meek,
left my will high up upon the shelf.

No fire, no drive, no dream.
Merely daydreaming, wishing.

For things I have yet to do,
for courage I may never find.

For a ledge to leap on to
a next, excited life.

Candy, I am

I am not food to be eaten.

I am not fun to be had.

I am not toy to be played with.

I am not rose to bloom, or fruit to be plucked ripe.

I am no exhibition, no marvel.

I am no time to be wasted.

and no prize to be deserved or champion to be deserving.

Am I perfume to be sweet,

or lemon causing grimace?

I am no chain to bind,

no prisoner to be bound.

Go yourself, 

as well, let me go.

Do not speak your words on my voice,

write yourself on my paper. 

No experiment to be classified,

Am I?

What,

I am.

We Bore Rats

We, born rats,

ran together between the gutters.

We bore rats

from the crannies between our guts.

Children born from a rabbit head

share not the blood of our brethren.

The others formed from feathers

know not joy or the sewer smell.

And ignored we spawn, still biting,

cognizant of the charred stars.

For the day we choose to drown the wards,

see our names written, signed upon their walls.

Their castles.

As we inherit all they've marred.

End of Night

I call for you

in the end of night.

When the oceans blur and animals cry.

Singing seaside songs you cannot avoid,

for they cradle and feed

the call of the void.

And I step to you; 1, 2, 3

swish, swirl, and swivel

towards that which you can't un-see.

For a ship-wreck embrace, I set free
three shutters of lightning
 into the sea.

Resurgent, reviving, the creatures below
crawl from the ocean,
your body in tow.

I call for you

nearing night's end.

When we sunk down deep, here, let's pretend.

Twin Scissors, Sister Blades

Mommy bore not one,

but two young baby blades.

Born were the scissor sisters,

After childbirth's cutting pains.

Right and soft and fierce,

Left and sharp and fast.

Sharp pairs of silver eyes,

and even sharper silver tongues.

Singing to the moonlight,

voices unsheathing, shrill the song.

They sang of the sea and swordfish,

and the taste of men's heart and bone.

Daddy raised not one,

but two young and dear cut-throats.

Rather than bonding scissors,

he forged each for their own.

From within the smithery,

a clanking clinking sound.

And out the fire-ate twin scissors,

paired blades drew he right out.

The Space Between My Vertebrae

My heart peeks through the crevices between my bones.

In this space between my vertebrae I've found where it belongs.

Who does the midnight bell toll for, I know it is not for me.

And I watch her ring from my window, to and fro and fro to thee.

And I kiss her in my mind,

fed up with the incessant cestrum night.

And I wonder if she would call for me,

If I climbed up the bell tower and wrung it free.

And as it calls it shakes my bones,

palpitating upon the glass church domes.

Glass Shoes

Your glass shoes reflect the light,

and they won't hold your body all through the night.

A nighttime's not ending any time soon,

they click and clack and call for the moon.

As you dance the shards push back your skin,

searching for the bones that hold you within.

You swish and glide and dive so steep,

but I still won't let you go to sleep.