“crow, you, mess
made a mess
no you’ll make things worse
eat your worms
I’ll later, with the nurse
she wasn’t happy. last time
crow what will we do with you
its okay look at me
don’t pick your scabs
back soon i know
then with a sigh, she heads next door
where a god lies sleeping
in a pool of his own dried vomit
By the blue-black sheen of the bookmark
when, on the 49th page
Three days before the writing stopped
The entries began to more and more
Resemble claws and talons
Scruffily dipped in ink
And smeared across the paper
Making a real mess
That he had to burn it
What else could he do?
Then went to lie down
In his face upwards body
Ted caught a Sylvia
Oh what a fish
He kept it close, and they lived
Happily as man and fish live.
After a while, he let the fish alone, she bit
Besides, you know what they say about fish.
When someone put Sylvia in the oven he cried
Why should fish have to die like this?
Rather than swim glinting in the thunderous foam
Scattering scales, each part of the water’s poem.
From time to time, and when life
was nearly through
Ted tried a little smoked Sylvia.
His taste buds were suited to her
As a fly is suited to a fish –
Now they swim together,
Amongst the many pages, they swim.
And we thread new lines to catch them.
Who killed Sylvia?
Aurelia killed her. Make no mistake.
She knew just what she was doing.
She lit the fuse
And bundled her into a white heat
pressure, pressure of a skull forge
Of an american all-girl third degree
burn to the brain.
After that her skin flaked slowly
Small stanzas of skin
The scar-tissue exposed would sting
and then burn and numb again.
And when the fire achieved her core
She climbed into the oven
To finally feel at home.
Stunned at what had happened
god sat next to her
I still don’t quite know what happened, said god
Dove stared, and all god saw was his own face
this made him glad.
But then he saw crow, he began to cry
Dove hopped on his shoulder, drinking
The tears made Dove grow terrible
She slipped out into the heavens
With a syringe and a cotton swab
A winter wind gusted
Dove heard it, rang through the archway
Her dark veins pulsed in the frost
Til the blood boiled over hope
Cracking the paving glade
Her crusting eye fixing on the mist
the dirt, the sand, beneath the skinnings
Crystals poured from her lungs
Piling growing strata of symbol
searing martyrs to the brickwork
Resolving, concrete sinnings
Shimmer towers, seeding.
Dove heard all this racket crash and scream
Extinctions kept her good company, and she knew it
A winter wind blew
Dove heard it, and said
A winter wind taught us to dream