Wednesday, June 12, 2013



Pretty Bones fell from the scaffolding of her own ribs
like the rungs of burning ladders she’s spiritualized into serpent fire
that climbs up her spinal cord like the pilot lights
of the scarlet runners to paint paradise in earth colours
with invisible highlights of the hotspots in a candle flame
anybody would hold their right hand of power over
just to talk to her for an era or two as if she were
Van Gogh’s unmarried cousin. The kind of beauty
that makes everyone in whatever room of the palace
of recycled chandliers she steps into like an ice storm
feel cold and lonely and longing as they’re drawn to her
like Celtic bards burning their poems in the fires
she jumps through naked as a witch that inspires them
like an heretical muse to take greater and greater subjective risks.

Pretty Bones hands you a begging bowl full of thorns
and tells you not to mistake the decrescent crown
of the moon even when it’s neaping on the wane
for a nest of inspiration it would be folly to hope
the same blue herons are going to return to
as they did last year and the year before that
like a recurring dream that nothing’s gone, it will all
come back like symbols of dusk to the limbs
of the dead trees washing their corpses in the waters of life
by the glow and the gloaming of the apple-green irises
in the eyes of a peacock spreading its feathers out
across the sky like a starmap to enlightenment
tinged by the sad colours of cool bliss in the background
as if she had an aerial perspective on time
and could turn the hour hands around like the petals
of the wildflowers leaping back into spring
without advancing forward into the auras of autumn.

Pretty Bones maintains she’s still vernal even here
in the tarpits of hell where the white swans
drown in their own darkness like vows they made
to the occult promise of a new moon to open their eyelids
as if they were giving birth to the light out of
the dark abundance of their own innate potential for radiance
like waterlilies shining as if their eyes were shy peers of the stars
saddened by some deep secret of life they enigmatically
keet to themselves like the silence of the nightbirds
that falls like a veil of longing and wonder over the distant hills
buried like sacred gravegoods in the same afterlife
they stole from like the vernal equinox from the bone-box
she carved out of her own heartwood like a place
she could rest her prophetic skull with no fear of being snake bit.

Pretty Bones is never any less fictitious than you want her to be.
She accommodates the freaks and the ghouls,
and the demonic zombies that are trying too hard
to have their mummified leathers patched by
the ghosts of dead outlaws with the rockers of their own gravestones
as a testament of their unthinking loyalty unto death.
Her compassion is alluvial as the flesh of the Nile
and even the crocodiles who eat carrion are too beguiled
to open their jaws like satin coffins to unwary gazelles.

Pretty Bones can see windows within windows like the light
in everyone as if she were passing by on the street at night
on her way to some hectic rendezvous with her anti-self
to paint the town red in scarlet letters as if
she were just learning how to spell the alpha
of a new beginning in elaborate labyrinths of magic kells
that say it all iconically in elaborate fractals of random spontaneity
singing like crows and angels in the sacred groves
of trees abandoned to their own fate like spray bombs and chainsaws.


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