Telemetry, Telomeres
Cigarette lady spits out fornicated weeds
How we wished to be umbras, settling for the icelipped things of wonder my mouth a sex cavern
My body an engine of trapped space
I will not smoke Americans until my teeth yellow black lantern sky
Yes the vinyl hour yes the ripped cellophane lines
I skim profane sometimes against my will yet spill out empty tires I could sleep in set motions
In this inert climate, nothing ever engenders smooth futures unless opioidic Eden is all we have
Dead grass leathered into street pilots with their little flags guiding the machines to the workabyss
I sing away the bleak in labored blisses do you know of
The gridded empires that spirit us into fractured notes in buckling silence
Stained global meridians of a tobacco sunset we surf like radio waves
Telemetry, telomeres, an endless interior waltz prone to imperial occupation
Will you claim dirtmind if that is what you are given
One day I will no longer rain weak
And the Earth will be spectral enough to burrow into new ways of waiting
Rejecting deferrals my cockpoisoned self somewhat less mismatched in this iteration
With tunneled eyes to see metal disintegrate into the vision of a loosened inmate contemplating data
Like minutemiracles to cherish until they explode, I then
Will know what those wed to the moon speak when they are right
Bryana Dawkins is a writer based in NYC. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Brink Literary Journal, Apocalypse Confidential, the engine(idling, and elsewhere. She can be found at bryana-dawkins.carrd.co.