Poetry & Prose

Autumn Felled

The roaches walk with me. Tip-tapping a little dance, keeping me warm and held. We skip over the cracks in the cement. We hope, silently, that our mothers will never die. The sun hasn’t come out yet. Maybe it will peak out in the next few hours. Maybe not. I can feel how my feet press into the soles of my shoes, imprinting five toes and a heel into soft rubber. The roaches don’t wear shoes, though I’m sure they would if someone were to make them. Then we could all wear shoes, but right now I wear shoes and they don’t. Regardless of whether or not we are wearing shoes, we are walking. Down empty streets. Past empty buildings. They seem to be empty, but I’m sure they’re filled with people, roaches too. Autumn’s first chill came early, but they don’t seem to mind. First corner rounded together.
there she lay
The-Three-Legged dog
cerulean whipped
Chained to a street light

The sun came out early to bless the still and empty streets with orange and red. Autumn’s first chill hung in stasis, fighting with still born warmth. Autumn has many names: those spoken and those felt. The roaches left with the sun. They scurried into sewer grates and open cracks in the sides of buildings. A song, forgotten, bounces inside of my head. Guitar, drums, and a woman’s voice crawl in my memory, caught and released and caught again. The roaches return, now translucent. Scorched husks litter the ground, crunched underfoot, dead or dying. The second corner rounded, alone.
Beast and Sex
Blood curdled under icy chill
Still chained

The chill left completely. I know now that if I can just get past three corners, she waits for me. Sent by Mother, married away. I strip my jacket, my pants, my boots, my socks. The skin of my feet kisses the cement with a gentle, tender love. The scorching heat leaves soft scars red and wilted. I remember now. The third corner rounded, forgotten.
Truth corrupted, Sun bled burnt Orange
King Cat
Slinking Hatred Wept False
Unchained, Hungry

He’s beautiful. More than that of the sun, truer than that of the sun. Crimson hair, wind
swept over eyes: yellowed rage. My lover—I’ve waited and I’ve walked. I am here now and I can’t walk anymore. I am chained, and you have tasted the sunlight, even if burnt umber has turned black. Gnaw at my chains. My blood is wrought iron the same as my shackles. My feet are blistered and bruised, but I have not fallen nearly as far as you. My lover, I am here. Please accept me. She is dead and a virgin no longer. I have no mother and my Father bears no seed. My lover, it is only you, and it always has been.
In my finale
I want it to be You
Who touches me
And sips tender from my Bleeding Heart