This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

notes from september 2012

the word of mouth, resting on my bookshelf. 

the glass of your eye in my coffee.

the myriad ways of taming.

the desirous ear, the lolling breath–who are we to slip, to unhinge ourselves to strangers?

the hair of your cheek is caught in my lungs, the tremor of your hand in my pockets.

a Southwest town burns down to the ground, and your thighs are aching. 

my bracelet breaks all over your bed. 

these are the methods of destruction: blonde, redhead, brunette, raven black. 

my bitterness wears a floor-length skirt, breasts bare and bruising in the sunlight. 

the object of my longing is a jar that will never be clean. 

tell me, love, what do you see on your ceiling as you sleep?

your grandmother’s fingernails, my drought and draft, the apples of the south, where do you go. 

the balloon string of memory

has fled to warmer climes.

Sid BrancaComment