i see roads to train tracks littered ( Read more... )

what is unwanted and what we
habitually reject in ourselves

without short-cuts
feelings and bodily sensations

with a short coat, of no special color
or always a golden red

the world, the
Wild. Imperial in a
Honey-white lid
Not for
Not for

unwrap the book of roses
when you meet
to find flying petals

become soft-like
the finest of
papers,

just give me your throat
I will let it grow inside my belly and speak to me

just give me your weathered hands
I will soak them in lanolin and hang them out to dry

Just give me the strands of your hair
I will weave them into a home

just give me your tongue
I am thirsty in the flickers of nightmares
And I need something soft to calm me

to ribbons in barn lofts, to owls in
Barnlofts too.
THEY spoke of HAY AND FEATHERS. they
spoke of warmth they spoke
their shell
cracked.

Not to know where one is, to be afraid
in the forest and in the green layers
not to know if there is a lurking, not to ever

Fucking on the concrete, we are all pounding
our fists until they bleed out inside us, not
on the world they were meant for:

a spider
and spiderwebs to be insidegreeted with blue on gold, by classic hands ( Read more... )

What will the red sun offer you that the blue sun will not take away ( Read more... )

You can now purchase Olivia Kennett's poetry booklets (24 PYGMY POEMS, CAVE OF FUR, SEEING THE GLASS BALL GROW MILKY) and other creations online -- she will send them to your mailbox: oliviakennett.etsy.com