volta OR these snapdragon flower seed pods look like little skulls because it’s all imagination & horror baby
can you
imagine i like
to look
at myself
& i never become obsessed—
would you
like to look
at my gothic:
all
the virgin eyes in the world
are made
of glass —horror
—horror —horror accumulated knowledge
abstract: to erotic
with pleasure
to ward against
to war against
perseverance
preservation how terrible
how terrible
is evil
really.
volta OR the psychology of the pyromaniac
was! it! revenge!
attempting to undo myself
i left you behind sister
there is no object so soft as shame
—capitalism’s one true dream: forsaken son of the amazons
i might have left you dead yet
by jove i thought instead to make
your meat useful
no apology with merits challenges
that fatal bond expectation
red queen fertility goddess almost oldest shameless gurl
of course you would advise carelessness i admire
your bravery however distant a landscape hard remembered
carelessly so that nothing not green will survive
carving red meat ready cunt
& you
disappointed by that advice
again am i to be spared by mistake!
my dear march my maddest hare beloved evocator from what
tradition persists adequate ventriloquists
haha any white man could tell you
the sounds of nature (too chaste
for my taste)
—love me would you love me—
(strange you’ve become my own
mythic
at the entrances it didn’t matter how many pieces of clothing i left
the wind never carried
(begin a howl *a chorus of cunts begins a howl*
holy bitter madness rabid
holy bitter madness rabid
holy bitter madness rabid))
volta or her cruel body laid-up lovely in bed is filled with the spirits of many dead who’ve died with regret & are suffering
are there any physicians in the room—
are there any linguists in the room—
you saw didn’t you—
the body sunk to the bottom of the lake—
the spirits that ate the body sunk to the
bottom of the lake—
you’ll never find the heart—
it’s between she’ll weaken & she’s finally dead—
sealed in the tunnel’s darkness—
would you do something that selfish—
(realistic)
are there any professional gardeners in the
room—
any real magic users—
is there anyone who knows the true colors
of a unicorn’s horn—
who has tasted rat coated in honey—
is there anyone—
is there anyone—
who knows anything—
about poisonous animals—
plants—
volta OR lacking true vocalizations my wings make a metal-on-softer-metal sound during flight
“poetry is” “the bloodjet”
“can you”
“pour” “it”
“into me” “my
wetness” “lacks”
“the blood” “the poetry”
“the” “poet’s” “blood”
“the blood” “of the poets”
“could” “you” “pour” “the poetblood” “into me”
“is this” “the act” “of exchange” “after all”
“it” “is” “an open” “wound”
“my heart” “excited” “covers”
“my mossy” “passage” “redwet”
“redemptive organ” “i” “get disturbed”
“run on” “two feet” “livelyeyed” “wet”
“my lungs” “with wine” “wet” “yours” “too”
“our moist” “lungs” “our wet lungs” “moisten”
“wetting” “wetten” “wettening”
“do you” “want” “want”
Leia Penina Wilson is an afakasi Samoan poet hailing from the Midwest. Her work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Dream Pop Press, Split Lip Magazine, Birdfeast, and OmniVerse. When not reading trashy paranormal romance novels, she bakes, casts, hexes, plays Magic the Gathering.
Image: ranker.com
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