love poem at night time
bodiless, removed from the sack the skeleton of my husband on a metal table a collection of things instead of the chemical grace that dozed in my bed.
how can i say birthday cake? horror. i wailed at the unsight of him, pulled at my hair. uncanny— not so much the death but the inversion / slimy with life still— like flesh but a portal. i could read his face in the skull and it devolved me.
haunted house poem
black sludge of the
night creeping grass
essentials which knock
me out of my boots
i say baby doll what else
needs to happen do
i need to electrocute
small animals the wind
the bones inside of my
shoes
the house on the hill
groans even when the
air is still
and i have no other
barrier no skin to cover
my intimates no flaps
for my ears the thin
skin of my eyelids
useless against it the
match strike
like halogen but
no glow no lamps
the radiators
the windows creak the
drapes shuffle against
the glass without my
hand to guide them
i feel no air have no
absolute despite
continuous
cars barreling down
the road will lullabye
the bog takes with it
each ear that settles its
bone upon the air i do
not know enough
about the devastated
teenagers congesting
my halls creatures
rubbing their sneakers
over the dour grain of
my floorboard i see
their fingerprints on
my tea cups weep
dream of needle
pierced ears for long
months afterwards
when i wake the drapes
around the bed have
shredded themselves
into ghouls clambour
loudly down the
hallways and i am
in danger i cannot
breathe without the
complete barrier
between my lungs and
the sludge of night
or air between my
burden and the bog
screeching with rot
outside the kitchen
door.
joy interior
my joy interior freckles
my joy blows out its own brains on the front lawn so all the neighbors can see
my joy interior secretly loves nylons & romance
is romance
my joy crowns on the hour, goes back into the closet like a cuckoo clock
everyone shits in the closet like a cuckoo
my husband fucks in the closet like a cuckoo
i’ll fucking vape if i want to, i’m an adult
darling, i’m sticking my finger in your eye because it gives me joy
you with the pupils made of blue glass
you’ve filled my body with blood and glass.
i’m dying on the front lawn
i’m crushed into asymptomatic bits. its
relaxing.
M. Forajter has often thought that with any luck at all she could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both her hands are the same length, but she has had to be content with what she has. She dislikes washing herself, and dogs, and noise. She likes her sister, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in her lit scene is dead.