NO ONE POURED ANYTHING OUT, NO ONE WAS REAL by HENRY TARTT
November 19 2025
The second eye follows
The first shut
Reveling in curtain slumber
There is no want to return
Just returning
Rattled rails spark
One 4th of July when
They painted my gay little nails
Like a famous flame
or a bomb (hum)
pop
—- Screeching amber
Iterations of Kate’s junkyard
Into a new lawn
Each passing second
Damned yards,
relocated department stores
open graves
Flags of rotted lumber
and broken glass
some blood that leads
to older bleeding- punctuated by more trash
and
Halogen’s persistent cry
A year of peace on Heron Dr
The ooze of Mercury green
Everything foliage*
*say it again to yourself like a bastard with your eyes closed. . Pretend your hand is a rosary, pretend your chest is a deep depression— now a sinkhole, and it renders so weird and bad forced upon you in a language of crassness only understood by—
Metastasizing Violet on a vine
of cheap LED Headlights
I mapped bits of you
Faded on county markers
Endless asphalt tongues
pierced with potholes
sprouting hellish exits
in the ruins
of masonic castles
outside of Union (AL)
in the
Totemic hay bale sculptures
That ward the wickedness of my hometown
To be sent off
With 6 consecutive hugs
And a detached smile
As an escape
You cried looking up at me
we were there one more time
As an escape
When I own nothing
because I owned nothing in the start
Crossed arms in costume jewelry|
Inventing new gestures as crutches
Envying
The succinct
and the dead
Henry is a practicing nun with a checkered past in East St. Louis.
https://ultimatefreebird.blogspot.com
https://memorycard.bandcamp.com