Taste the Shawl

The cold weather,
this vein problem sticks to tender demon tedious,
as he rocks in grandmother’s chair–
grandmother’s chair built from
her funereal elegance,
Victorian skin–
withered attention.

He sings smooth soliloquy in tongues
fluid with sick vapors,
targeting the words which made her famous in this–
argued death of ruffled Cholera,
Polio projection of what ailed her.

key girlVenomous behemoth suckles cherries
of crimson persuasion,
bloodied from the floor by the front door–
these puddles smolder with sin,
smugglings from the soil
to build her bones of succulent calcium,
mourner’s focus of erosion.

Grains and curses of scattered bloody somethings violate purposefully
the air of cannibal crumblings,
obedient prescription mumblings of overdone hunger–
charred to the core of corpse cryings
as he rocks in grandmother’s chair,
grandmother’s chair built from graveyard hair–
and licks his lips to taste the shawl.

By Brittany Warren

www.bonesofbrittany.wordpress.com

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s