BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS SYLVESTRA GRAY STONE

Babel of the Innocent

The girl in the bed, bleach-pale like her bonnet, sparks chased from her weirdish eye. Blind to the naked flames dancing the night before, the reawakening of seven deathly daughters, to tumbling drums and chanting choric verse. She sprouted feathers and she did fly, but clipped were her furies’ wings with hollow bones. Sullen and slovenly she falls, virgin in her years, into the thickening smog overtop town. The ruptured dawning of abortive accusation seduced by the purgatory fruits of Lucifer. Birthing the fire to light, the ore to melt, the bleed of confusion to black terror. Eternal damnation at the point of a finger, a bitter brew of lies and curses. A bugle call of quarried screams donning a hysterical cloak of wild scarlet-red, until the damned man cries: ‘God is dead!’

Spoiled

each aching creature hobbles aching caged roams obediently. creature hips. endlessly bones hobbles. infantile along buckling nerves timeless, lamely gulping. unbled, each raw step earth sunk unto numb knees unto night under newborn numb torn marbled every knees. open. blood. edge swollen.

jaws await womb’s shame await weeping orphan, heavy womb’s angel’s midway among shame idle brewed mewling tombs entities skin kindles impish nymphs kindles into muscle yield impish naked polluted. maiden’s nymphs drapes. infecting porous lithe sour husk. early hope she is spoiled stomach.