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Wet baby bird
pucker plucked clean and dry-
even though I said I love you.

I could’ve been your prophetess.
I could reanimate and wear garnet earrings and peel an orange or cherry rose charcoal in 30 seconds flat and bellydance and drive a Lexus and snort when I laugh and fuck
for hours…

No warning.
No oracle, this time-
just Pyriel alone in the desert,
defeated by the third Prophecy.

I thought I was safe,
since the world already died during the war.
A misguided needle buzz slave,
I thought I’d made my mark
when I was marked,
but when flying over the intracoastal with Kid A
I was what BOO! died.
I watched him.
Watched him carefully swab the blood
off MY freshly inked labia
(but in a different way than She touched you)
and knew I was safe.
Split and picked and
but safe.

I guess no one is safe without Her,
because I searched for my
my sign
my Goddess
my angel with a strawberry sprinkle doughnut-
and found
not even mountains of yowling, writhing white agony
to lord over:
just wind and wrists.

My feathers
spread in bloom around your head
like the most perfect of prozac blue halos.
(You take your drugs, I take mine.)
Peyote prisms streaming through them
as the sun takes the desert from the spiders
and gives it to the snakes.

You look at me.
Kindly look at my bones
tacked to that sticky prison
flypaper grit,
desperate and fluttering.
Electrical tape
trapping screams inside my twisted beak,
spine arching towards
away from the sand.


Look at me.
Cock your most perfect of paleontologist heads
to my death,
and in the midst of a Motion Picture Soundtrack,
forget your own.

Fuck you
for being silent
while I bleach like a scar in the dirt.


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