Blood in your fist mud in your veins
the thickening of mist a clot
expands
echoes
steam from your mouth like a fuzzy ghost
and you fall to the floor a fine mist now
rising.
I’ve got a head in the back of my eyes
and it has just mushroomed like a rose
bud and I have no tuxedo jacket to clip.
What came first the moon, the egg
or this fucking head hole head wound?
If you hold my head up at the right angle
you can see the moon like a telescope
through a window of flesh.
All eggs must fall.
Babies come from ovals
and my forehead is ovulating
new blood in place of old life
and I lie on the ground
a vaginal wall of hot peppers
this throbbing head burst
hurts like porcupined fire
and the more forward to death
the more looking back life
the more I ache this womb in me.
Open to something born.
I always clean my knives before I kill
and twist the blade pull
and twist the blade pull
and twist the blade pull
and the splunching sounds
record an index
that even head wounds have good days.
We eventually become lower case i’s
without dots on top.
They roll off
tongues
into deep openings
the dope oceans the moment to a hissssss
yes the drugs help sometimes
they help sometimes
to smile.
Thomas Fucaloro has a book out through Three Rooms Press called "Inheriting craziness is like a soft halo of light". He is an editor of Uphook Press. He expands only to release.
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