Miss Dior (was what I wore)

This sting
is the bittersweet ring of orange,
cinnamon, myrrh, all
things that purr with the pain of love in
loss, all syrups that gloss the matt fact of
lack, all strains of sublime in the
grind.
And while I wind
between its fingers, sing
with the hymn of its
whim, the bittersweet scent is all that
lingers, in bittersweet memory of
him.

Untitled #4

Last night I lay on my bedroom floor
dead. Dead, my head half in the tomb's core
ready for prayers and embalming and all of the awful,
necessary, awful mourning,
when a shard of musical light shone in between the slits in my wall
and hit my ears and tore
my chest and wore
me like a glove and ordered
my blood to beat! Slowly, but still! I had been so sure
I would be no more
but the blues restored
me to life and swore
I'd continue in spite of it all.

The Bare Bones of the Rabbit

inhabit my room, low
and behold their chalklike whiteness placed in the mighty reverence of a Tschaikowsky-guarded tomb, though
there’s no
jaw
or
really any other morsel of the body, no
torso, no
legs, no
paws, and it’s
also missing part of its
head, but what’s left is
cherished, saved from
perishing by a nature-loving
man, a gentle mischief-maker, skull-taker and
relisher of life, who bestowed
this deathly gift upon the
White Wave of Strife.

(My Marvellous) Miraculous Medal (Montage)

Every anniversary
they pinned the coin of Christ on me
and prayed
I'd stay
the course.

Marble Jesuses

scrape together like a
set of marble Jesuses
crucified by
love

steakheart

static carves the
steak of my heart