Red Feathers and Metaphorical Oceans

I found her degraded,
slathered in pomegranate puddles. Juicy sweet.
Timid blueberry tears dribbled
atop her raw pancake tissues.  
Her offended coconut flesh
feigned feminine composure;
honey-milk complexions.

I noticed off-white muscles
tense,
paranoid and taunt.  
Bones bracing for the sizzle.  
Broiled
into someone solid.
___________________



Dead.
                 blackened texture - rabid, raven-eyed  
Decided.
                     complexity beyond explanation
Decapitated.
                  submission - succumbing to indifference


___________________
Ghosts boast the ability
to seethe adicity through cemetery breath.  
They remain inaccurate, spewing century old sentences
and ectoplasm.  
And even after all the decades of aversion,
they still owned the audacity
to prescribe me prophecies of folklore.
Implications proclaiming with penetrating resemblance.

It was too much the same, looked too much like hope. 
The red body of a cardinal decomposes discretely atop asphalt,
and although he's far too rancid to fly, a heart clenches
beneath his bird-bone chest - cardiac metaphors embroidered in muscle.
Beef-jerky membranes engorged with hope.
_____________________  



Murder.
              hoarding warped faith - satiated atrophy
Madness.
                 expecting deception to kiss with kindness.
Massacred.
                    homicidal awareness - pleading for optimism


_____________________
Liquid apple, molten cherry, carmine
magma shrieking through her seams.  Little
Miss Doll has fallen apart, she has sarcasm
falling from her fabric and soda-pop
surging from her eyes.  
Semi-precious stones
clutter in her throat, ruby dust staunching screams.
Hexed into rouge - flowers resist yet remain.
Reluctant foliage blooms in fields of a deeper red.  
The sky is brazen, a storm of bloody cotton.




"Suicide isn't fun anymore.  Seashells crumble amid
indigo wrists; feral mermaids ripping through
red scaled skin.  
Weeks pass and sea urchins scab
across vanilla sand beaches.  
Coral reef grids sleep beneath an ocean of aquamarine cotton;
an aquatic tongue cautiously lapping the cobalt infection.  

The starfish continue to cling, acting as living tattoos - little reminders.
And when the oceans are emptied, you'll understand how it is to be hollow.




Death.
       like serial killer intention.
Murdered.
         like red, blue sensation.

Like poetry without a purpose,
faith staunching optimism,
the kindness that kills you.