Sick With Bloom

I walk beside a manmade pond With sloping walls Sick with bloom To cut the nausea of the carpet slick They placed six spotlights Dimly shining Making amber of the brine Black seeds and blinded shrimp Held in the cones I dreamed of true magnetic north The water drained Black boulders shone like greased backs The draping skin A muscle twitch A fish would crawl out of its scales To break the skin on the pond To cut the nausea of the carpet slick Instead of standing dimly on the wall Magnetic north is pounding in my ears True north is somewhere deep inside the amber cones

Submitted by Cyberwaste — Apr 26, 2025

Forty yards of clearing Kept the houses from the pines Each day the village heat was drawn And spread to cool And even at eight bells I saw that night was forming Rags and strings and strips of shade Were lowered like a curtain at midday The stiffness of wet burlap And the nagging of the torrent Hissing somewhere underground I know it very well For I am drawn and spread Yes, streaming from the undergrowth Night arrived in search of me

Submitted by NecroLord — Apr 26, 2025

A shifting boulder pierced my side When I was young And I let silence Sour Hot Pinch powder into seeds Inside the black box When I woke up The patch of skin was new Sewn up with glass The winter Livestock tried to scream I bled I faked it Stole the coat from him Bore tunnels Couldn't keep her Never found the inlet in the lake Looked up when there was darkness in the hall A copper stain had shrouded me In blue and red and green The colors of the earth, but more serene

Submitted by Corpse Defiler — Apr 26, 2025

The mangrove, the preserver, holds its tongue As flashlight cones are whimpering And twitching like a hand Sighing without sound or light The dense lungs of the waterline Where flatness asks the water in To fall through lit rafters Spearing like a shiv of dust To meet it, the preserver Which is mangrove here but winter there Do not probe your fearfulness and pride Just try to shimmer by Without a look into the pit On your way to Dresden on a train Your luggage close Your bulging gut that's rooted through With hairline strands of thread and loam It wants it The smell of mud Through the cold glass with one small scratch The mangrove, the preserver, holds its tongue

Submitted by Infernal Flame — Apr 26, 2025

On the flats The fever yields There isn't any wisdom left I'll build a barn and watch it mold How sulfur sours Greenland's breath I thought the elders leaning in Had maps, kinetics, ancient bole But now I see their wooden faces Moaning Lined with dusk and pale Beholden to an early song Still coiled on the rotten mother's meal And as the pine becomes the snag The evening widens Clear Unkind Don't leave me on the flats The fever yields There isn't any wisdom left I'll build a barn and watch it mold How sulfur sours Greenland's breath

Submitted by Nargaroth — Apr 26, 2025

It was night above But yellow at the rim My last days here were spent Raising the fence To keep the glow from seeping in Beyond the gate I knew the crystal chandelier Had released its spokes into the watercourse The cathedral in the fog unmanned The sunken meadow with no guilt Began to ache But in my last days here I locked the gate And turned the mirror So that the silver side was looking at the paint It was night above But yellow at the rim There is ice in the spring There is ice in the spring

Submitted by BloodShrine — Apr 26, 2025