Listen/purchase: Feral Beds by Darius Greene
Brush the witch moss from your face and storm his lips. Sew the black clouds to the sleeves of bulging ships. Why teach the crickets how to shoot their bows, they won the War before we were even born. Don’t count the graves by rusted rakes who cross the glooms. The terrible clocks know their hands far more than you. No one wants the crowing of your sad glow, just bring them the soft hiss of the rain and snow. I’d rather hear a lions tree with roaring bees. I’d rather lay in feral beds of sticks and leaves. I’ll cut the eye out of a summer moon, from an oily puddle sick with the rainbow bloom— so you will never starve for color and light when you find yourself drowned at the bottom of the world. You will grow a baby star from out your loving head, swimming deep and deep and deeper down and make your way on. Catch the red sun on a muddy hook of snail. Break the chimes or be impaled on wedding nails. Why teach the creeper vines to strangle what they climb, they won the War long before we were born. Don’t count the waves of silver grass as each one gleams , the ghastly meadows know the way far more than we. No one wants the crowing of your rank or fame, just bring them a wild kiss of the lighting flames. You’d rather hear the ghost owl cry where beetles stir, you’d rather lay in feral beds of wheat and fur You will run from nightmare houses hunting the plains on raving legs and starved for children’s names. I’d rather let them eat your bleeding heart than keep you in a hole so deep you’d never grow one at all.
