swelter

The weather does its share of diva turns, tantruming down the thoroughfare, trashing all the tchotchkes. Bones dipped in tallow, every hour illuminated from the fire inside, dry lightning fingering the ceiling as the rain passes through. The soil speaking to this effigy of grease and kindling, ache and inferno and the actor’s mask, oh but for the burning of this breath. Heat and headache and broken hearts, the tumult a clatter of teeth lost in a dream, a memory of looking at your hands. A consistency of change in between get away plans. A topic to turn to where the words are supposed to go.

It all comes down to swerves and swears. It all comes down to what you do with your hands. I scratch at scabs, the itching around the crack in my skull where the soul seeps out. The fragment of some ancient impact, the shadow patched with stitched in kiss and curse, the plume of the unyielding flame atop this crown making sleep a stranger. I fold the pillow, I soak the sheets, the heat doesn’t ask permission. Days and nights heavy with bleak and blight, stars fed from the well of dreams falling from the firmament, conversations spilled from a cup full of cards and keys. 

The thunder rumbles, the thunder rolls. The night keeps changing genres. These cherished small circles, these venerable primal plots, the calendar and the call sheet. Salt and beast and time have steeped in this busted bed, the habitual and the sacristy, the venal and the victuals. Fathers and Mother floating upon our exhausted incantations, the stone drained dry by these exhortations to bleed and flow, the tumbling dice ever beckoning a new shooter. Here where the flesh remains charmed and berated, the story running away with itself, the matter aggregated and spilling light and heat. Watch me we say. Watch me as the wishes melt away.