I took my door off the hinges

l. The screwdriver- obsession/it was worn, birthed with tired scuffed entrails, a transparent yellow filament handle// off brand. curious, at the ripe age of thirty I find myself curator of a selfish museum officiating prized collections of moments and phrases dedicated to you. faces ornate and distinct you’ve chosen to wear, model, vogue. adorned in macabre to satisfy succulence on flashing screens; such I’ve grown fat and ripe. sweltering 4000 watt runway electrocutioner, dripped, melting skin, exposing my tongue left to devour fashion truly to die for; bittersweet morsels, encapsulated, shelved gunfire in an open crowd. you write the last line of winter, I fry, salivate, and writhe as you season with salt and butter to taste.
ll. Twelve screws – I am no splintered carpenter nor jack of all trades handyman as I break my cardinal rules back// the way blueberries go missing and stains fervently tell no lies. immersed into your occult for dew drop days on end. historically my track record of fixing things falls flat; leaves me rot on grounded tree knots where they fall in the backyards underbelly. hinge separates from over layered paint built up, piled the years. there is a drip between the metal as if the house it’s self bleeds. it’s amazing how the gifted rise to glow, wiggling wands and hands while the watchers sit by watching, floating face down in the pond.
lll. Parts missing- rusted down poured rainy weather writing desk, wrought angry condensation on a couplet since revised. curve this scratching, carve this feral out of tissue and maim these wild mammal bones long since caged. empty again// unleashed, snapped elements together, lashing in the town square, flaunting and fastening whatever else winds may blow through neighborhoods unbinding.

a chilled emptiness rises inside which the likes I’ve never diseased into this world. mundane bristle brush strokes. flick and flail as cool mint fluoride swashes between gums (the only thing they left, un-theft). the 15 minute breaks (often late from) at work amount to the same bathroom, phone call, and clock in. a wish to be eaten by an escalator at this prison. penitentiary tarantula, sprouting, lifting nightmares to new heights? as I unload into you half cocked and you to me with awe and shock. revel in regret of so much more we could have been. false love fictional – I relish in time which your pendulum swings and swayed but a moment into me.
lV. Closing- quadraphonic girl lay down the ground waves in my mind, coffee grounds, surveillance gowns are numbing. insert, dissolve; harpooned, make the bleeding stop. this clotting dismembered spine is Agent 1182400.

I have no idea what to do with this door sitting in my living room off the hinges. I think I’ll paint it and hang it on the wall titled “Japanese rocks that look like bears”.

 

 


 

Author’s Note:
This is a 6 day brain melt, if I sit on it a 7th day it will not be distinguishable. I point a gun at no one nor turn it on my self. this is a reflection of me identifying a lust of other female poets (dead and alive for that matter) and past encounters of women who ensnared my senses. I had an idea about myself once as a teenager then forgot who I was. I could claim a lapse in reality but I would have to identify existence of something in the first place and that I am not yet willing to admit.
-“leaves” is a play on words.
I intended no sought confrontation. lay upon me your sweet sweet judgement and may it bludgeon with the might of a thousand harsh critics who write books on criticism.

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