Rintrah, who wanders sweet on the hill

I always forget how much Oris bites me. 

in the mirror, up and down my neck like deep-sea tulips, yogurtdrown. full of blood am I; dawn dosed with all the skin, bone, mouth of just another person in thick, other rims. look at my hand, o, look where the lines of distance and child ghost me, red vein and blue. 

by tonight, the sky will have heard all it needs to; but I shall, under the palm fronds, silent maw; somewhere, shaking, counting, figures under the bridges; throughout the hollow meadow.  

no one can tell, but I’m such laughter. 

⦿

over Lucky Charms, I bring up the sounds of this street. where do they come from: a mean dog after heartbird and sports etcetera; swingsets, sticky laughter; rich, subtle fireworks. Oris strokes my ankle, eyes open at mine but reluctant. 

as if to recite glow, for some reason, was all his fever: he takes out my cock; two fingers, up in pink, red bumpy, ridges follicle; then flesh and morning white, he hums with it deep. we wait afterwards, needing cigarettes that respond, stagnant, patient, mutant forgiveness. 

and where does the dog noise stir?

he smells like apples left out too long. he kisses like one too many bitter lap pools. his hair reminds me of the heather. his eyes reel with crystal tension. we have nothing in common but our breath, spit, blood from time to time. 

still, it’s more hygienic this way. 

⦿

not too long ago I watched a girl chew through her wrist, l knew she’d only make it halfway before asking for my help. what she really needs, more help? more heights? more hold? I couldn’t tell, this was behind a 7-11 lit all fluorescent, wild with sea grape. she sat out on a pokemonflavored mattress, just begging for it, whatever she pointed. whatever gives out first. I waited for her awhile, soles of her feet sneaking out like shaved mice ripples. 

somehow I ended up seeing her a year later right before the bathroom at IHOP, talking edge of her face, empty booth, pale wonder of her starving, her crusted-off thought.

⦿

Oris told me he has a large stock of dresses, shiny texture to them, like aluminum foil he mentions. I want to see him in every single one; mauve cradle stroked pink.

I like the Belle dress the most, I always like that flush of ballroom on the cartoon. 

his toes cut into the skin surrounding my neck, his neck lithe; my nipples, his eyelashes scorched with even just the dawn. I like how he’s been planning nothing but different dresses all day, he doesnt ask about the noises I regret even before they really get going. 

⦿

whenever his sister Aurelia used to live here with him was when I was really falling apart, like no segue from dream to wake. immediate, gnawing force of air, wind scraping out a little cove for vision.

I never knew how far I went. soft, smooth tits, she raised me up all the stairs and I couldn't help she smelled like words closer. stretched across her or she on top of me, those nipples so so soft in them cute puddles of veiny pinkwhite like zebra cakes made by tumorous means. then melted in turbine-ginger, she sat on the steps outside the house sometimes.talking to herself or whatever it was she between white and red of the evening cars.

she always wore a little flower in her eye socket, right eye scooped out years back: “when the Daddy-faces decided I could make me a good prophet,” she told me once when I was licking it around. we liked to put anything we could find in that pit, but the little flowers were so fragrant, so much anything all at once. 

they grow somewhere in the backyard and I never knew anything else about them, glistening minnow-like in the dawn like now they do. always at the foot of their stalks I found odd, four-inch long humanoids, babies with eyes like seven or so worms woven into ornament; their skin blue but like the iridescent shimmer of light caught over pigeons' necks. always dead or crying little polleny death-rattles. 

⦿

I watch them as he gets things ready. not much, there’s not much in this old place to fiddle. noises have started up, I know already he’ll want to drop me off somewhere. when the noises get in me, he looks at me frozen, parts of him frozen far off. not looking back as I wave, as I always whisper my Hellos, afflicted with the Silence I see.

Im told in Africa there's a whole land devoted to Silence where the clouds do not move, where children ride upon the hovering vessels made from baleen and unicornbreath. Im told like toyland you can never return; but when still, under the immobility and flat but not stale wind, velvet saps into your spine and you become cradled with all the flavors of some strange empire of plasma. Of lake like atmosphere dark on chlorophyll, beets, the heart of Six-Headed Antelope. 

I chew through the dresses but perk up right at the end, he says to me sudden:“I don’t want to be here... can you.” he points to the zipper but doesn’t exactly ask. his hand is so white, blotchy, he’s been at the bleach again for giggling. I almost break his neck, but resist. I do resist. 

⦿

when Oris steps outside, I can finally see it.

lines scattered, scratching back age of his face; violet stains of tear, eyes sallow, lids swelling; sweet fires of iris in bright fog; hatred of blue skin, cut pink, translucent; for me this was the closest I’ve come to butchery, just the daily stark, screech of cloud. 

I used to know Oris just like a little thing I kept away somewhere, his sister and him, diamond parenthesis in a cellar full with fade. 

“will Aurelia need anything?”

he looks down towards the lavender trunks of dead eucalyptus, face of confused pomeranian sucking out sports plastic. 

“she hasn’t called me today. you know, she’s been so... I don’t know.”

when did I last touch her? her hand maybe, bougainvillea, the exhaust amid taillights. 

“she’s just being Aurelia, living wherever, eating some.”

Oris tears a leaf off a hibiscus shrub, stuffs it slowly into purse, bit by bit. 

“we’ll all have a big feast soon, I like doing that: I know this tricky pumpkin dish that you especially will go crazy for,” and he strokes my shoulder and I feel him sick.

but looking down at the houses so far, I count the panels on the doorways. for some reason, all these are dosed with some bend in Oris’ back; like shingles, facets, flickering welts; froth crippled in the blue, lost over his web, shrill; if I only could hold him longer, somehow; his lips never pull enough away, my body so cut and still tall. 

⦿

I motion to the gutter, lick his neck, scream so; for I am a thing of blood. fur spiking, milk filling my ears; instead of noise more and more milk, like Splashing Violin's viscous mammalian strings; sparkle, the little flowers which grow so much, everywhere, meat in the settling cloudst; sweating out rich ospreys of blood, sticky eyelashes. 

"Do you hear that? those noises... like sirens in the distance," Oris looks at me and smiles, blinking so much I can barely stop myself from crying. I know the gravity stiff in a single look, like his eyes deep in blue flesh. Cut wildly into blinding stars.  

he looks off into the distance, "you don't even know what you've done." swallows, then the air, measure of azimuth; serrated, deep violet.

"you don't even know what you've really done, do you?"

have only the glistening of crystal, of shattered chimes but vigilant ones. somehow the iris forms enough flesh to make sails from. Oris leaves me.

I notice him going but I stay and listen to my hands scraping against my head. 

⦿

see the little boys that sit outside my window, they sing top 40s singles and plant succulents. ever smell them, pink powdery musk, like new left in arctic hush.

and like the wind, trickling into the pine, shelter rabid and white. never knowing what felt, then yellow on the sky. bright star of Venus pours, siren tense and rich. vermillion into me, otherwise the hole of color. 

finger the holes in my neck and chest, where so much gone Slurpee. never cold enough, never so distant as the first time. when I first kissed the down of some place, and some birds stuck between my fingernails start ringing. 

for the Sirens don’t need us here, they need the space for echoes and that alone. 

Andrew Marvell's The Garden