Slothcake

Sloth Cake is a chemical composition

resulting when the electrons of apathy and omniscience cross

You know the forecast is abysmal

why even bother to sled when the snow is destined

to be drunk by narrow vacuums of earth

so quickly the joy of white becomes the sorrow of melt

Sloth cake is all of this

and none of it really tallies up to anything

but a taste of sugar waiting to be whipped

into cream blown away by some ferocious wind

Slothcake spells “I” - which is a lonely half of an equal sign

it was left behind by the calculator’s frenzy

Sacred Heart

Those rimmed in halos of gold are often devourers of hearts

Why do you think Jesus’ heart is wreathed in the divine flame,

held in the hands of every saint who has touched the ecstasy of the madness,

of knowing that god is ultimately a love so pure that it is actually

indifferent

your coffee house minutiae is nothing,

what do monoliths of heaven care for your desperation to buy black market plan B,

they much prefer if you approach with all your jewels of perdition

the diadem you scraped together from tips singed with cigarette stains

& long nights where your back was arched like a tent over a papyrus

too often burnt as offerings to the hallowed face of NO

So they burn you alive, a consequence of you wanting to touch deity

you might not come to them with the American Dream guard dog by your side

but you will be loved, even as  the cerebellum creaks and cracks from the threat

of too much spark

too much of the rush of the drunken starlight

too much of the sensuality the trees imbue when

they carry the whispers of the sky’s love for earth

So to fall in love with sacred hearts

is tantamount to suicide

but when did the expired flame of the Teresa

appear less than sex concentrated

but my snuffing out comes on the wings of LustAweFear,

These gods of the humors

they transfigure crosses into bridges

and even though to know them is to know another

Little Death

I welcome the moment’s closure

the breath stop

when the orange comes flooding in

To know love is to know the belly of the great Incinerators

It feels like Joan of Arc

It tastes like charcoal

It ends like nebula in miniature

February 2015, Rachel Ford