Cracked like the skyline
at 18:11
countless men mine me for coal;
I suck the midday Moon
like a good symbiot,
like a pretty harlot of war,
I search myself at the garage sale,
I hollow me out,
unlatch the hands like instruments,
lick and spit,
soft, but I am dust -
disassembled to a murder of crows.
This blood builds altars between teeth,
this ocean is godless,
I am
77 silver coins shoved in the socket,
the worthlessness of thoraxes
is speaking tongues -
translated it means I who no longer know dawn.
I, eyeing this river, a carnival, alone.
I, no longer knowing the sparrows
for their marrow of strawberries,
I, stuffing the pillow with hares,
my ventricle for Doctor Death,
My mouth for the athame,
for you, lover, among decapitated carnations,
for you lover, your silences like noose
around the neck of promiscuous Miss mercy.
Now, sugar coma, the mistress
lap dancing, calling for harvest with her
young hips, Night's offerings,
burrowing into the dream;
my tongue withdrawn to wash its harpies,
my soul a poker game of ghosts -
we are
counting the dead like lilac, lavender,
marigold, primrose, irises;
you are the softest when you count my scars
like raided tombs,
rid of furniture and amulets,
a courtyard full of chimes
under Ibuprofen skies;
the cruelest when you don't do good your lies,
the mortician won't sway.
And you, how are you called?
Dead daffodils, plucked,
their corpses littering
the surface of the Styx.
You are called love,
madness, aria, flame.
Spawned from the womb of Spring,
Red like heart; red like gallows.
I stay, but shut my eyes.
Out there, an arid land
where nothing grew
when Persephone failed
to make her return,
the clouds were churning
in pomegranate hues
(eat now or forever speak your rue)
and pillars pierce the veils
like bones in bloom
(shotgun and kettle),
the sparrows were shrieking,
sharpening their claws,
my blue was leaking,
wonder does it show?
A murmur breaks out,
it screams and it plows
their ancient bodies,
a malady of songs,
swaying back and forth,
a gentle disease
(can you hear it?)
of their breasts, rising up and down
(I will die smiling, like a clown)
I, a shiver, I, nobody, before
the countless white dresses
of priestesses in rows
fingering their open wounds
and chanting
"Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite" "Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite";
"Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite"
Originally published by Sudden Denouement Literary Collective 2017
Mirjana M. are a digital artist and writer from Belgrade, Serbia. Their work focuses on exploring the juxtaposition of various elements through mixed media of photography, double exposure, textures and light. Their work most often explores concepts of duality and has appeared in “Gulf Stream Literary”, “The Good Life Review”, “waxing & waning” magazines and other places. You can see more of their work at their blog olorielmoonshadow.wordpress.com, https://ello.co/oloriel, get in touch on Twitter (@selena_oloriel); they are also the creator of Suburban Witchcraft Magazine (https://suburbanwitchcraftmagazine.wordpress.com/)