In the softest pit of my belly, the masticating angel, the glowing renegade with milkbone teeth, eats me alive, and spits me back out into the world, half-light, half-silence, the happy miscarriage of identity winnowing the essential me from I. … Continue reading
He had traveled many crooked side-streets and shadow-scripted back-alleys to arrive at this point. The white-hot lure and bait of the angel, who had played hard to get, beckoned, with an ineffable wink.
Her talk of bruised skin, and how it caught fire on the far side of trespass, fascinated me to no end. She wanted to burn clean through, didn’t want to hear any more talk about cooler heads prevailing, or stubborn … Continue reading
The last time I fornicated with an angel my porchlights blew and we became tranluscent sheets of merger rising above a glassy pool of chartreuse reflecting in cursive the lighted gist of our holy remains. God, I’m open to another … Continue reading
Renegade angel, pissing golden light, to be obscene not herded.
Drowned at a young age, angel to a sunken arc– find her pearl-diving.
Feted, by an angel’s glassy hands, slow-burning river of sound, pooling white fire in rounded furls.
She has held this position of constant sorrow for millennia, ennobling the grief of sundered hearts too human to bear openly.
Between worlds, the vetted reaping of Memory, where wings once brushed rash pink, or, how an angel, ennobling fetters, loses sleep to grievous mortal claims.
