Ice Frozen Miscarriage

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Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting,

but falling slowly,

spiraling

uncontrolled into the black;

the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space,

unsympathetic.

I’m only a miscarriage of

wishes and wisdom,

ice frozen,

looking for a comet

to start my heart—ignite some

fucking passion.

 

My brain feels itchy,

like heavy wet wool.

I’m not crazy.

I just want to

lift

the

latch

attached to my skull.

Open the hatch.

Get rid of the blanket.

 

I hate the day you were born.

The absence of you crushes me.


© 2019 Kindra M. Austin

Ophidia

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Ophidia.

By Steve Naisbitt

 

Shimmering in light cast by a leprous heart’s desire

To have its decaying flesh fulfilled

She smells new live prey

With silvery flicks

Of syllables well-practiced

Only

To shed that lurid honeyed skin

Displaying translucent dermis

A veneered abyssal silhouette

When her latest meal

Loses its flavor

Like over-chewed gum

Leaving

Septicemia

And

Neurotoxic kisses

The

Necrotizing remains

Of

Forked tongue promise

 

© 2019 Steve Naisbitt

GI Distress

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Don’t be stoopid. It’s not me—

definitely you.

 

1.

Shush, now.

I know

break-ups are rough. Tough like

 

Rawhide.

Ever watch a dog chew on processed cow skin?

That shit’s indigestible; causes intestinal

swelling and diarrhea, etcetera.

 

Funny,

some relationships are (un)just

oversized break-ups in-waiting,

glazed with meat flavoring for optimal taste.

 

2.

I used to lounge with you

outside in the summer dark.

Under the stars,

we’d swig bottles of Miller Lite

and inhale Marlboro tobacco;

two Alphas trying

to cancel each other out.

 

3.

Shush.

That’s a goddamned lie.

I

never had int’rest

in your use-less

competition.

Now you howl by yourself,

wondering

who will clean up your vomit.

 

It’s not me—

definitely you.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

Great White Wing

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I sense your presence best in the dark,

impalpable; when eyes, mine

cannot see,

but I can smell the sweet milk

cleaving to your breath

 

And hearken—

your lungs speak in tongues, tailored

for my despairing

 

I build fortresses formed from

unbleached bones of so many

rib cages

made unnecessary by

Death and his scythe

 

And hearken—

your lungs speak in tongues, tailored

for my despairing

 

I sense your presence best in the dark;

great white wing of hope,

alive inside my rib cage

still necessary,

you carry me to the sun

 

And gather

golden fire to raze my

lifeless despairing

time and time again

© Kindra M. Austin

food for crows

My bro, Olde Punk ❤

RamJet Poetry

food for crows

gasping, gaping.  Metastasis.  It glows in the corner as a fire fly’s mouth.  Deep molasses of a moonless Southern night.  It has a need of its own.  There is a name on the door but no one knows who it belongs to anymore.  That seed was scattered and the crop failed.  Erasure, in the gloaming.  The craft of wetwork still decorates some of the old pine floor.  l’satan lo.  Obstruction, judgement.  The weather vane is rusted in a westerly position.  Adverse to the meaning, this pain is still subjective.  There was never a time in this place where the low dogs didn’t whine.  There was never a place in this time that felt so wrong.

Perhaps the wrongness was mine.  They used to burn the witches in the square.  Malleus Maleficarum.  It happened just before the end.  These things often do at All Hallow’s, the reaping, Samhain. Desperation, fear…

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