How much can a woman weep,
(do they wonder?)
The first martyr was God,
then I followed.

The final stages of limerance—
liquid grief harvested in the fire.
The wound of the world is...
a woman.

In the horse of your heart I dug
my broken ring fingers.
I mourn the unworn liquid veil
when I married the night, as a child.

I mourn not knowing sisterhood,
motherhood, stardom or light.
I mourn who I longed to be—
a mother in a land of fathers.

I mourn not getting sugar
rubbed in my wound.
I mourn my spine, bent over backwards—
the footstool of divinity.

How much                                   can                                           a    W O M A N
    weep,                             (do they wonder?)                      The first martyr was
   G O D,                                      then I                                    f  o  l  l  o  w  e  d .
                                                                    
The final stages                            of                                    L I M E R A N C E —                         
liquid grief                      harvested in the fire                       The wound of the
world is a . . .                                                                           [  W O M A N  ]                                  

In the HORSE                   of your HEART                              I      dug     my
broken ring fingers.        I mourn the unworn                    L I Q U I D  V E I L
when I married               .....................................        when I married the N I G H T ,
.........................................           as a child.               ..........................................................

I mourn not knowing         S I S T E R H O O D ,      M O T H E R H O O D ,
.........................................              STARDOM                        or L I G H T .       
I mourn who I longed to be—      a mother                    in a land of fathers.                     
I mourn not getting                      S U G A R                rubbed in my wound.

                                
                                                                I                                
                                                           mourn                               
                                                       my spine,                            
                                                 bent   over                                
                                          backwards—          
                                  the footstool of divinity.                              
                     _______________________________                     
                    [_______________________________]                     
                        ||  \_/   \_/   \_/   \_/   \_/   \_/  \_/  \_/ ||
                        ||                                                      ||
                       / |                                                      | \
                     (____)                                            (____)                          

harvested in the fire
of your HEART
I mourn the unworn
......................................
as a child.

a W O M A N
The first martyr was
f  o  l  l  o  w  e  d .

                        [[ THE MOURNER ]]
                            How much can 
                            a woman weep, 
                          (do they wonder?)

The first martyr                    Then I followed.
      was God,

                       The final stages of
                   limerance— liquid grief
                      harvested in the fire.

The wound of the                    In the horse of
      world is...                                your heart I
     a woman.                              dug my broken
                                                     ring fingers.

                  I mourn the unworn 
                     liquid veil when I 
                   married the night, 
                           as a child.

 I mourn who I                          I mourn not
  longed to be—              knowing sisterhood,
   a mother in               motherhood, stardom
 a land of fathers.                        or light.

                      I mourn not getting 
                         sugar rubbed in 
                             my wound.

                      I mourn my spine, 
                  bent over backwards—
                      the footstool of 
                             divinity.

Pyramidal soul with ghostly tenderized hands
Songs of past lives through hair strands
Pray tell, what color is my thought?

Count the longing in the eyes 1,2,3...

The fixing sky puppeteer
Broken sparks as tools
Redraw the cartoonish contours better

The road to you is long and it burns.

The lumber of soul infested with sin mites
Who will extinguish my soles and palms?
Maybe. The Fire.

Lip butterflies coo.

Hands with infinite wings, unafraid
To drink from fruits growing on bodies
Scissoring constricting ivy

Clean me of what I am not.

Blow over the dunes of the bones of a right hip
Pick the bitter orchids in the transcendental basket
Repot our roots into heavenly soil

The sky in my shade of blue.

Baptize heads in the tornado of hands
In gusts of blonde roses behind the veil
You always find his song

Dream of the wheel, unbroken.

Reflecting from your flat white linear perspective
Let the darkness of the eclipse pass
Your thirsty lung smoking me alive

The body is fossil fuel for the consciousness.

It invades us, crystallization of all there is to come
Steaming rays of the oases in the morning of life
Modify the stars in us and juxtapose on the above

A perpetual asymptote.

Turn to fireworks, pentecostal limbs
In your soul's colors, over all tongues
Put them back in the mouths of their all-seeing eye

A cosmos without benefits.

The storm-born foam, a virulent boil
Scales hard as ingots — serpents of old
The waters above and the waters below
the keepers of the salt 
and blood covenants.

My windpipe carving from below — a pearly trap of sound,
A spell they could shatter, should their will be their own
My song no longer holds their veil and my sky
it thinned long ago, when Atlantis sank
up to its third eye.

When greed of man was stronger than the storm
Up, up in the heavens,
My heavens — lay full of air, 
the conquered lands 
of those who sleep.

Men — half-gods heavy with earth, 
Yet just as tailless angels slither into 
My net of knotted notes, 
in glistening, pearlescent architecture
they lust.

Salvation comes not from my song
I only aim to steel them into their belief
Into the waters below, not to give in...
I am weary of teaching 
such lessons.

The boat — rocking towards the holy spark,
Step forth, trembling hearts, go to your undamnation
Follow the one who walks in the desert and her
who kneels to wash the holy feet of Truth, 
holy feet of the Way.

Tread into my waters, believing
Your feet drier than the witch's bone
On the pyre — 
branches of a burning bush 
on the moon mountain.

…

If only they’d believe they could resist
Their salvation comes not from the other side
You of little faith, 
take a step further to the light — 
tomorrow fish will be plenty.

The cat infantry
Naked, unlocalized
Shadows the dread of the black night
Emblem of a yellow pain ripe in the swaddle
Of a carnation
An apple with its naked navel sunbathes
In a clear glass bowl, leaning against the thought of better times
The desert plant’s wig shutters the photograph
In which you no longer look like you did ten years ago
Naked as a gun in the sheath of a cowboy
What weddings would we have had on the beach of oblivion
What bureaucratic wreaths... with flowers of sand
In the toy bucket called time

Essential oils of pork
Riding a vegan horse
In the stable of flowers without
Trichinellosis

Vomit your parents, child
The consequence will always fall on the
Wrong side of the coin of history.

Woke up again in this doll house
Outside, the plastic sun shining opaquely

Open the can of Barbie parts
Add them to your irrational portrait

There's a fool in the plastic mirror
A perfect leg on a worm-holed soul

A perfect plastic smile over a tear
Glue for the parts

Tragedy and comedy 
Are the same thing.

Wake up again in your dull house
Inside, the real Sun shines translucent

Wake up wake up wake up
You're out of parts to play (with).

A century and a half
since the world drew breath through you,
Beloved.

Now, returned to the Open,
resembling the terrifying angel 
you once sang of in the storm of your
Elegy.

The beauty we can barely endure—
                                      Finally yours.

My prayer compels you,
compels your watch from your portrait above me,
Eternal.

Touch my heart as your final death rose,
incarnate in my hands,
Lend me                your eyes for a while—

Blessed is the fruit of your quietness,
your silent hope...
Alchemy of all solitude.

You who always arrive in my heart,
                                Dream-crowned
                                               Forever.

You’ve never read a book,
I've never held a child,
We are not the same,
Yet we are similar— 
...
To you I'm an unopened book, 
And books— my only children.

This is how it all began…
His frail embrace,
Wrung every sparkle from the galaxy of my eyes,
He hung my soul with his.

He wandered through my dreams and thoughts,
Through the white September nights, 
And his eyes, shadowed ashen green,
Slowly dripped in drops of wax, that same familiar color.

I felt his spirit like a forgotten part of me, 
Torn out, extirpated.
Like losing the most important piece of a puzzle;
An unearthly longing fell at my feet on the first day of autumn.

I yearn for his presence, like a blind man thirsty for color, 
My heart still seeks his gaze, 
With which he unknowingly measured my solitudes, 
And let the velvet worms gnaw undisturbed at my moments.

I get we come from different heavens,
But with each day still far apart,
Without his desolate caress, like a thread of thought…
I feel I must breathe with a thousand nostrils,
To stop the incubation of hope's mutant germs.

Though in my eyes I knew the stars were bursting with love,
His arduous gaze, hanging from a corner of my galaxy,
Pushes me to seek him through the future born without moments,
Right in my dry palms,
Through the rotten wombs of September.

I always turn to you,
Like sunflowers to the sun,
Blessed my heart with the warmth
Of the barrel of your gun.

You plough the seeds of doubt
Inside my blackest earth,
And hoping they will sprout,
But you reap what you sow.

The rivers of my soul
Were dripping wild and free,
But now they flood my eyes,
Tears hanging from a tree.

Clouds gather in my coffee,
When I longed to wake up,
My Milky Way turned sour,
Shattered my cosmic cup.

And all the sour stars had fallen,
And filled my heart with craters,
Just like a sad teenager moon
With acne on her phases.

I’m on the bad side of your heart,
Where nothing ever grows,
I tried to grow pink flowers,
But all I got were thorns.

And I will rid my earth,
Of all of your bad seed,
I’ll burn venomous roots,
But your venom runs deep.

And I shall wait for that sweet day,
The day of harvest moon,
When my sunflower of a soul
Will no more turn to you.

And I will leave behind my flower,
I want to be the Sun,
To rise proud from the East
Of someone else’s son.

The placenta of a city umbilically links eternities,
where the shadow of the Holy Ghost falls
to immortalise the mirage of being.
Folds of God poured over
Creation.

In the beginning, there was no light
but God’s eyes staring into the abyss,
into which man birthed man through apples of discord
to stare right back at God.

What is the probability of  falling from grace
right on top of your future wife?
Oh, the virtuality of belief — gargara telepatica, 
Eve never turned the other cheek.

Why is the smile of reason stuck in the fence of separation?
Millions of ancestors loved and died 
to be repuzzled later in our fragments.
Do you even feel —
human?

How alien it is to be God,
and yet the distance between us is just a lifetime,
The infinity between zeroes and ones.

God thinks we are grandeur, and we think God is obedience,
we, the magnum opus of something that never ends,
and not the other way around?!
God makes eyes at us —
with his heart.