About your drawings and all that red!
And those birds! I have traveled there,
The loneliness of red turkeys
In a cornfield as the first snow flies,
The terror of red vultures
Pecking a roadside armadillo,
Those bloody crows that sway
In the wind and leaves! How they haunt
Me with their insistence of words
And meaning, surely there is some
Story scratching its way beneath
The surface, the promise of
A language I can understand
Only in the darkness of my veins.
Anyway, in my dream I got it
Wrong. It was all scribbles and lines,
Angry erasures, frissons of
Childhood, furious scrubbings of
Pastels, curlicues of color!
Flagellates! A clusterfuck of hue
And mood!
I woke up knowing you
Are in danger girl, you need to
Watch yourself! This dream is an omen!
The ancient ones burnt entrails and
Smelt the blood and gristle to
Divine their fate. The blind ones
Listened too closely to the mad
Music of wings, the awful truth
Of shooting stars streaking across
The night! Not because of the art
But because of the content
Of the story in their blood,
The bird of consciousness itself,
Always watching, preying. You draw
That darkness in your veins.
