Womanifesto 2

Womanifesto 2

 

Maria Morisot

 

Published by Moan Lisa Press

 

Copyright © 2015 Maria Morisot

 

Like Clockwork Music

 

It is the Autumn

flame which peels

away the pains

I’ve disentangled

youth to spare

 

Disembodied carcasses,

disemboweled diamonds and

hearts; so much less

the strife

 

You planted the world

within these curls;

and Fountainhead’s

unruly sediment.

 

This is the plane

I’ve positioned

between teeth,

for the rapture.

 

Hear in

my mind

the evolutionary

mixture of past

& preset film

reproduction.

 

Dante’s Misconception

 

Exacerbated principles,

of abduction; three doors

downtown locks and Blick

meandering minds sway &

 

At the moment of

conception,

the prayers of

little minds

like mush

gymnasticizing

folic acid

through the mud

 

Inherent in the Purgatorio.

 

Latent Accessories to Murder

 

Time’s licking ticks

centrifuged molasses

scaring at the ordinary vase

 

You were

a mis-

nomer;

 

& in the apron

there were printed lilacs &

 

Trans-

istors, my sister’s

phlegm had held

handicapped

 

You were laser-

corrected, correct?

Fee fie foe fum

and the apricot

swings the cemented

sphere. To the moon;

 

Let the anticipation

try to regain leverage

on this hymniotic purge.

 

Steroidal Sinners & Saints

 

Blessed are

the young cunts

who bleed

in Purgatory’s

visceral evacuations

 

Momentum’s moments

minded by the putrid

reciprocal addendum

 

Only one

standing top.

Two hornets

flattening

their un-

encumbered,

testosterone-laden

multigenesis reproductive

organs.

 

Hush now,

baby.

 

Proceed with

caution & surrender

to life’s

upholstery.

This is

our one

command-

ment.

 

Abortion

 

Lethargy;

dipped in wet cement.

 

Our sons & daughters

wrapped in vinyl,

rapt percussion’s

signature pin-

pricked into

obsession’s consult-

ation.

 

A forfeiture—

hysterectomy.

 

Bloody sans;

misdirected

missionary

stands, strands

of pure, thick

mucous membrane

 

A fitting high

to this

insipid sig; nal

flare to free

the offset shooting

stars of my discovery.

 

The Cane Sugar

 

Post-

trauma

indecency

 

Nostrils

flared

…red

 

retri

bution &

the silence

of her sil-

houetted

frown.

 

It dumps the deep

relaxing sins upon

our never-ending

field of ice cream &

 

violent hymns.

 

Mixed Feelings

 

In;check

Queen&rook

Insert->parapalegic doctrine

of frostbitten synthetic signal;

flare,forest and the fires

 

Burning _____________.

You said,

“well to

have you ‘here;

we’ll to’

repertoire

handkerchief salute.

 

Salute.

 

And when the bells

ring from the station

as we get off the train,

and fly into the taxi cab…

 

Salute,

I breathe your name.

The Journey to the End of the Earth

 

Who’s your

cybernaut-

propagandist

speaking cylons

and holy text,

 

Sim-

biotic ecstasy

converted erot-

icism; moistened

synapses, glistening

with the mucous

membrane of a child’s

imaginations:

 

Furniture up-

turned, relax,

the world’s in

motion and the

axe falls before

we can conquer

the passion

of our lusts

 

Red meets yellow,

bronze & mossy

green; indefatigable

neuro-

science.

Monsters

 

Turist-

trapeze incinerator

blogotechnological

reminder of who I

used to be; you

inch your way into

the spine of my

discontented realities,

spewing Satanism &

the loch-ness

monsters of our

intimate relations.

 

Inferiority complex-

substance-

recognizable de-cay

an unfeasible

ingredient to this

aberrant landscape

 

The dream I

spewed so many

miles into the desert’s

barren hills;

so that you & I

could recover a

piece of broken

glass.

 

& rings were

held between

fingers &

the silence

strayed into

the boundaries

of a cold, black

night.

 

Smashed Up

 

Sister,

mister; man-

o-war biologic

intimidation

you fused

con-

fused the

king

 

In an-

onymity

she pleads to her

self-sustaining god;

realizing her mistakes,

wrapped in plastic

angles like the

bodies of the dead;

zipped & concealing

her identity,

 

Writing off the

pages of the night.

 

She wants

to escape

this slow

suffocation;

to breathe the warm

sun

and bathe

within those rays

 

Dripping

happiness

from a sea

of never-

ending blue.

Nothing

 

No face considered

in the bleak

beyond; no

turmoil, no

disruption;

no bother, no-

body.

 

& in her face,

the sea of

linguistic

philosophies; no

hurt, no

pain,

no deliverance

into what she

paraphrases as

self-

destruction.

 

No death,

no-

wet hands with

pools of fate

dismantled

in their doorstep;

no love. No isolating

measures of my

resolve.

Hysterical

 

Drawing out the blood

of this intoxicating silence,

whispering the

name of God;

& Hell’s permissions.

 

Sanity’s surrender

caustic

nom de plume

in solidarity

with one’s own

internal voices,

speaking heresies

& broken-up bouts

of fantasies in fits

of rage;

 

Little boy,

the stream cipher’s

daughter,

an errant digestion

of forensic peace;

I was the naked

wanderer, scratch-

ing

out

 

My deep blue eyes.

Mary’s Scar

 

Ounce, but buried

beliefs; curbed by

salutation & a

styrofoam insecticide.

Our solution

to going underground,

where all we were

after is entropic

existentialism.

 

Greed;

mother-

fucking

collectivism,

bite;

rattled

perpendicular

bisector.

 

Pigs;

haven’t you

heard the

apocryphal

symbology

of their

herd,

 

I show you

the encrypted

sonnets, my

love; I show

you these.

 

Continue

 

It doesn’t matter,

nothing ever matters

anymore; when chains

strike chords of

bleak tomorrow’s

landscape, we want to

cry to the gods

of yesterday to

make some semblance

of sense; but it’s

just a hat drop

away from breaking

down; it’s just a

shattered plate

beginning to

crumble from the

fracture

it’s

sustained—

 

foil percentages

twisted charis-

matic parenthetical

dialysis; you wore

your heart on your

sleeve, and gave it

away to the usurers.

 

We broke bread

at the parting of the Red Sea.

 

Flood & Fountain

 

In a collaborative sea,

speaking advantages of

self-inflicted fantasy,

holding on for something,

a taste of something,

 

We both have better

reasonings to put our

doubts into, this

glass facade-candle’s

whorl; opening up the sky

to God’s Kingdom,

 

Here the boils

of yesterday

and the blood;

bathe us in &

drown us in

sin’s requiem,

a steering into

the dead pool.

 

Only the purer

parts of us

are left behind,

bent on Hell’s

disruption & an

escape into

the inconsistency

of idealized

interpretation.

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