The Cartographer's LoverThe Cartographer's LoverThe Cartographer's Lover
I am eating maps because I cannot have you.
They taste acrid—like burning trees, burning plastic.
Before this is over I will have blue teeth. I crush another crumpled memory into secrets under my tongue.
And I hope their ink will tattoo my flesh, because your breath cannot. Will not.
Maybe countries’ ripe lines will lash scars into my tongue— because that is something, at least. At least that is something like a gift.
I pray their painted oceans wil
Cardinal.Cardinal
Cardinal
He was down by trampled fields of snow.
Above, sunlight made everything glitter in sparks of hammered gold. Nowhere were there bird cries—except once:
treetop-wise, as on clear air, crystal notes shivered, cold and clean. Thrice, sweet harmony sliced through winter.
When we looked down on his splayed body, suggestions of red played out, wavering over white snow, once, twice, then gone.
&nbs
The butcher's window has aThe butcher’s window has aThe butcher's window has a
bruised face streaked in honey. Money fell from the sky—but they were only small tin coins.
Sirloins hung, heavy with blood— buds of rose red,
dead. In the window, rain pained itself against glass. Class bells rang in the city— bitty bits of children rolled cold down the streets. They froze.
Throes of passion waving in the window. A blur of horror falling, calling wildly, pierced their vision— television never showed steak ache like some human bruise.
-dr tobias funke
analrapist
--
*snuffle* *snuffle* squeal piggay...
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