Tag Archives: ritual

The miner

                                                      She was waiting
                                                by the open window
                                                  for the sun to set
                                                 smoking a cigarette
                     but it never did
                       that night


         The Velvet Underground spun around
         on the thrift store phonograph
                                  it sounded
                      almost like Aphex Twin

                    a full moon
                     or a straight line
                       insufflated off a mirror
had her hair all tangled
                                            tied back
                 like some sorta
                                    dying ritual


both of her hands &
        both of her eyes
     would alternate
                                       from screen to screen


was she a hunter—or a dopamine machine


who was she waiting for

                  in nothing but her striped stockings
                                             up to her thighs 
       a black choker with a ring on it &
       an indigo princess plug hidden

                                        by the faux tiffany lamp
                                   cross legged on the bed
                 in a small white room
             with a fat buddha tapestry
                                             twelve floors up
                                            with the window open


no encryption


 the screen turns off
  but the cam stays on



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Since Tesla fell in love with a pigeon

                      never ceasing
                                   in dispersion
                                        you curl in quiet
                                             revelation

                                is there anything
                        more marvellous
         than the way you move
  for me

    spoonfulls reach
        their boiling points
                      combustion I
                                      become

                                       when the day is almost
                                 done and the night
                        has almost fallen

                       let’s catch
  the last sunbeams
thru the kitchen window

     it goes
         harpooning
               in sunken spirals
                        across the cymbopogon

                                       swirly white waterfall
                                                            of the sky
                                                    of my mouth