the blueshift journal

I lick the teeth of a handsaw

until they are no longer red

 

               with air. The taste of blood

is the taste of metal,

               

                               I’ve confirmed.

               Don’t doubt the gravity of this

               or anything else

 

because the gravity will try twice as hard,

and you’re not twice as hard,

 

               I’ve confirmed this, too:

with needles and other intellects;

seen the swelling that occurs

               along the rip of a seam,

 

               inside –

 

                            thespian masks

                                flower pot

                                chicken bone

                            kick drum

                            revolver

 

– what I kissed to hold the blood at bay,

               pouched as inside a boxed wine,

because a kiss is meant to be a seal

 

               or something whispers,

               from the dark afar

 

it’s always midnight

somewhere,

 

               and I can’t help but open

like a mailbox at the mouth

and invite her in.

Him in.

It.