Succumbus
Rattle the trachea, look into the neck Judith
slit—passion fruit pulp scooped from split
cocoons, sweet blood on my cold tooth
crusts and becomes me. I see myself in
oozing froth, ogling at clarity and calm.
I ozone and digress. We can digest all
matters capable of mashing into a maw
but don’t go masticating on slop you can’t
chaw. My ballooning conclusion will cast
cashmere shadows in strange places; to culminate,
I caress the feeding hand; I’d let Cerberus sniff my
barnacled porthole for a hint of identity. Who am I
kidding—I’d let Lucifer loosen me if it meant
I’d spin into a spiral, I’m a thief and con for hurt
who can’t discern disaster from opportunity.
Touch-Me-Not, Otherwise Known as Shameplant
The flames of hell will love us : Take my seaweed
collection : It isn’t luck : but you could weave
wet strands in the dusted stitching of a dream
catcher : I will keep alive everything
with roots : all parts of you that
are not you : How long until
my green thumb goes putrid
purple : suspicious blue
The green kiss of heaven adores us : Turn over
your paltry sum : It is a burden : I will relieve
some tension : I will deconstruct all traces
of your superstitions : break paintbrushes
if played with : taint every invocation
until ritual turns ashes : nutrients
I’ll spread on sunflower seeds
spilled from a torn pocket
The callous hand of purgatory plucks upon
our exposed muscle fiber : we are harps
with notes of thick wet thuds : remove
ceremony : no more weeding here :
sanctuary and stillness : complete
retention : let it rest : run wild :
how a bedroom if untouched
becomes a ghost’s museum
Book of Matches Issue 15
poems by nicholas alti 