Abortion poem


The storms lopped off that head of
quiet cities
giant waiting room
and
fog – braids

always besides seeing
a snake – pit
crucified orchid looks like a uterus.
along roadsides made of hot coals

Do the trumpet of darkness hide love
do music of the wind drinking wine
do carelessly frog – brides
cast their veils
over the vertebrates
do bare-hearted glass frog
cast their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates
I wonder.

Is it a stretched time
a hamstring torn apart
all the dead ends in the night.
with a cello played by umbilical cords

as an endless wait
and gallium rains
fall from the past

I should remember

those
sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly

Say something.

Closes with a
little
small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children

a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men

My bastardsโ€ฆ birth of my birth.
all with ageing faces
la tierra
They’re taking me there..
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.

Through heart’s mouth
cockspur veil of senses
Everything

started to grow rapidly
wood and waves
gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns

Children!
a bronze plated pendant of
stone people
weathered carving

of sweet pastel, a cutting ladies’
birth of my birth, and unborn
children, sandwiched between ovaries

I’ll paint myself
open-legged pose
like Frida Kahlo
self-induced abortions
a nude
descending
to
Dali’s haiku

Cannibalism in autumn