MIDDLETON MAGICK

In response to your last letter,

inquiring my soreness I have a cotton script of stainless behavior,

parted from any pressing reason

to share you my days, I am very hungry

busy to a flattering extent

but hardly

I stumbled out of my home last night, the bunker looking trap on Middleton.

Trees stood in calm necromantic salute, to my hereby trip

unhindered by my shadow's prostration

field mice feed the concrete silence feculent hunger in feastful inchmeal

breathing in choking out;

stars slipped into blush sweaters

the moon wove a rhinestone glove

in its pitch home dripping, cold liquid leather

while I'm stitched into the triptych vantage

the broken home

the plodding of my words

the violent snap

of the rubber band, enhanced by the vein of her pull

now stuck in my teeth transfixed in its ridge

I melted towards the steel bottom of the only presence I could keep down

slowly I ask where you are

if your lips crack in the winter

if you’ve read Canto General

or anything else

I'd tell you the Ornette vinyl snapped in my sheet

attempting intimacy with a blood clot lost

that your subtle tongue

lives in the ashtray in my yard

and it digests through my glowing hand

that lights up the morgues, the cells and the yards

the night bug flocks to

when you are around foregone.

Solidified into your there and lack of

I have pitched a tent in the nearest motel

I’m tempted by your number in rotary

the one distance translator of wave festering abandon

far across the border your wallowing heights have whaled

the ink soaked swearing of my onyx séance

cannot closet the breaths of loud ammo

pistol spilling from the terrains open mouth

when I am this high God

all the field mice are full

in the morgue charred ashes of your wise orations

it strangles the neck who turns this head

and I can touch now, hold the moons glove

firing a jade farewell through my expired dream of loving you

feeling your ichor flood my veins

in the desolate ember, of your last flick

the night bug flocked to

when you were around.

by Zoë The Bug

Years into the arms of words and speech, Zoë's work has only just divulged itself into the public eye of poetry in the early seams of November 2020, by sobriquet “Brainsoups”. She continues to produce acid-soaked material in hopes of curating a fuzz inducing, psychoactive read into modern age and its strangest touch. You can find her highly caffeinated in Canada BC, face first in her influences, dipping toes into the deep waters of her first novel. Instagram: @brainsoups