interrupted dreams

dreams of an old lover
already wearing the
face of a stranger.

a hen better than my own
licks my face and wags her tail.

it was almost a bad dream
but you woke me with
your vomiting.

again.

and again.

i breath in ink
and wish it were over.
i am tired.
and worried.
and think of driving
to the hospital
only to fall asleep.
in this tiny bed
made for one,
but sleeps two.

it stops.
but baby chickens
do not rest.
not in the light of the sun.

i will eat it in my sleep.
when i am a weasel
or a dog.

spring

mist from a melodramatic sky
prickles my skin.
the song birds don't sing,
but bitch about nest building
for the eleventh season
and threaten flight into windows.

dogs howl at noises they
only hear in their heads,
and the squirrels leave
for their hatred
of dog shit smell.

by the end of earth's three month rotation
we will sigh relief.
the god damned babies
have finally shut up.
their cuteness morphed
into adolescent awkwardness.

we'll be alone again.
in silence...
until we break it
with sound of desperate
fucking.

shit.
more babies.

the long summer days grow longer.

migration

Children run with their scaly chick feet
across the grass of spring.
laughter ensues the idea of
living in the clouds.
my cloud will be a panda,
and yours some desert heartthrob.
tiny sailboats cross oceans of paper.
sometimes pink.
sometimes orange.
sometimes green.
the places we have been are fantastic,
though we have only traveled once.
spring begins the real start to the new year.
and this year we prepare for migration.

vultures

standing wrinkles leak
stale cigarette smoke.
eyes sunk so deep
in their sockets
they stare at tar polluted vessels.

the sun dries our hides
and flies spill from our mouths
in plumes of greasy vapors.

vultures sit on our shoulders
and pick at dead flakes of skin.
they sit, voids without souls,
and they wheeze
with every shallow breath.
waiting for the next set
of tar shot eyes
to roll over, into the dust.

the room

The floor bleeds with every wet, passing day. Mildew spores take root in the mucus of sleeping noses, and the foulness bleeds into sleeping brains. Sneezes of desperate minds wake twisted, aching bodies from beds that intend to suffocate. Please sleep forever, they whisper to floating dreams. The room knows not the outside world, but fears it all the same. It fears the days when the floor feels the raping of rain, when the infection spreads, when the humans getting paid to care...don't. The room is slowly dieing, turning into itself a musty grave.