The feeling that makes candles bow
where webs of silvery spiders
lay their eggs
Pulling away in long
invisible strands
Humming as their offspring burrow
To push on it and remember
the clipped wings of an
imaginary griffin
The mummified childrens’ books
White and black and beige and tan
Broken lines of infinity singing
in the desperate air
A nest of pooled blood, pulsing
against the skin shrouded
in a thinly veiled membrane
Pour sugar, pour salt
Forget
the vile tongues
the people in the room
Death and his victors thrumming against bone
To linger and wander
striking under the false attacker
There it forms, sometimes in lumps
growing and breathing and consuming
To have it eat,
to have it eat
More, they say
More
Rip the threads from the beggar
The soul trapped in honey
Strike down the celestial stars
until they split the earth
Pull down the sun until
all that’s left is
black and blue
Ugly Child Blog 