silk plague 1903

This warm plague silk
you hang from an empty wound
fills your mind with fertile thoughts
and lets the milk sun pour along those pregnant holes
And the day will heat the night
breathing through a tangled dream
of nostalgic candle cream

Stacked like wax in the past hotel
fading into damp cloth and,

Smothered by some screaming tomorrow, breathes hope
where rabbits feed on damp grass

And insects spill across the wasteland
waiting all year, for a hose dripping tears
But winter disrupts the frost on the leaves
coming down from a wine high vine
the great machine of life starts but stalls
on the hill of maybe
The object of loving the past is sitting in that hotel
drenched to the bone in the smug blanket of touch

And getting high on needy fumes
projected toward the telescope of tomorrow
a warm white silk
not hot
but a work of science, because of soft hands
scratching your hair for insects that built a high rise
in the adorable town of pleasure

Author's Note

this is the worst thing i've ever written ... please tear up and throw in garbage..