And today my one strife is emblazoning incisions in a tome
For an open-heart surgery. And today I beat against – beat my body to a pulp –
Stone archways and doorways all through an imaginary Rhine divested of
Character. The phrase “I’m poor” wringing my inner-ear like cat candy.
Today I feel – how worthless –“I feel” “I feel;” These are completely words
I churn into a somnolent machine who refuses to transmit joy,
And cracking the code means putting your head in an oven. What?
Month: February 2019
The cancerous floral proliferation of a creative-minded child
Can conjure rabies in a Dad like Snow White’s poison apple.
It goes: fresh undulating capillaries form, at dreamtime, ‘neath
The foundations of a country home conjoining not one, but four
Four children to the central Nervous system of a hardwood,
cross-borne body turning every virgin dandelion to oak
They cast each stem in pitch and resin
instill the fear of God in amber bones.
The cinders dance like lightning bugs
Over the bonfire’s conflagrating trepidation.
Ana Celeste Poetry 