The Blood Gasps For A Mouth Constantly (NaPoWriMo Day 18 – Neologisms)




She sleeps, dovering over the world,

Wrapped in sheets of sky.
Clouds cotton her head.
She is wool-baited, sleezevacked.
Her flywheel sun spinneting out of control.
The tracks in her dreams are dubbed
In languages she can’t understand,
Her thoughts refuse to be spoken.
Schema of rhubric scars her skin.
Aphasia coats her tongue; thickens her throat.
Asemic symbols assault her with their infutility.
Their labyrinth of lines flear the nothing to nowhere.
Her stigmata are pulse points bleeding asymmetries,
Streaming codexes.
She is unswallowing eucharists, disgorging time.
This viscous fluid rains on rooftops, strewens down gutters,
Til it suffloods the sewers, upending silt, stirring the fallen deities
From their hiding places as tensibility drowns all the nothering
Underworld rats that enswarm her bespoke tears.















3 Comments Add yours

  1. teeming with tension. luv it! :)

    1. ccthinks says:

      Thanks, mamasota! I just re-formatted it. I may change the formatting again. My personal challenge beyong the prompt’s challenge was to make you feel something through the invocation of sound and rhythm even if you have no fucking clue what the hell the words mean… the rush of it should carry you somewhere. Anywhere. With or without context. Like music. xo

  2. M says:

    as though Carroll had a more erudite ghost-writer ~

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