Listening to the boiler quiets the whispers
between my ears.
There are days upon days
I am tired of my echo
…
this hollow cavern, this body this skull
I am lost spelunking myself
this fire the only proof of the proximity of water.
…
Do you like the self you see
when you wake the oogie woogie?
…
Give us then the bones: the teeth marks
have their own story to tell.
His heart is a hollowed out tree
downed in a heavy storm.
…
The sky is full of lurking cities dressed as clouds.
The wake they leave make for choppy water.
…
Wait. And wait. And
…
Whispers. They are indignant tourists and terrible spelunkers.
…
Georgi, call out the oogie woogie. It is time for a dark mood referendum.
We are tired of the echo.
