InnocenceMy wings beat against the rubied muscles of my back, clawing at the bones that cage them in their ivory bars.
Oh how I wish my fragile fingers were mighty claws, sharp and deadly, so that they might tear open this bitter flesh and separate the muscle and bone so that my wings would unfold, pure as virgin snow.
space.the sky is a virgin, you can't touch her.
my body is a highway for your hands,
but somedays it pretends it is the sky.
it is venus, do not venture too close.
hold your distance on the days i don't know how to be near anyone.
i don't remember how to be near you.
cut me to the bone,
you will find glass instead of marrow
crevices for veins.
breath too deeply and i shatter a little more
dig deeper and you will find
i am deep space,
infinite miles of empty head feelings.
On the nature of the sky1.
I touch the sky --
greasy fingerprints left on
rainbows and butterflies,
glimpses of the West
torn in pale clouds.
I left my heart somewhere:
in the atmosphere
above heaven but below
the dead zone where float
spacemen and aliens.
I often refer to myself as a
especially when I notice
dark wings unfolding
and a shadow spreading beneath me.
I see devils drifting on downdrafts,
angels falling from flight,
and my rapture begins --
I rise up through flames until
the storms extinguish me.
I live in a corner of
the astral dimension "Gravity,"
where everything falls and
kisses the earth, leaving my home
empty and dreamless.