“Blot”

Blotched
thought-feeding-feeling
thought, black nothing walls circling
rivers of sentences twisting endless curves
feeding, darkened nothings with outstretched
hands piled up with shadows
feeling, nothing darkness with fingertips
reaching forever outward.

“Fingertip Tapped”

I tapped you with a fingertip –
ink burned
up through my veins,
following village maps
historical genealogies
and scar tissue,
settling at my shoulders
bursting with black blooms,
petals fell down my spine
composting nerves and muscles
building feathered stems,
slowly, brightly, blackly
bursting inky quills
stolen from aged ravens,
used to dress the faces
of the pretty ugly,
where scars burst into flowers
demanding flesh and meat
instead of sun and soil.