iii. dirtcore

and so.

she feeds the beast and wakes ruffled,
body aching from runningfever,
images clear but frozen in motion,
smells stale on her fingers
and she says "blood and soil", she
says "blood and soil" she says,
"i am because of this hunger".


this hunger has no beauty, no grace.
it moves illjointed through times,
scrapes the layers of every absence
to find a presence of any kind,
to dig up the dirtcore hidden
under the many woodfaced masks.


she rises, passes through circles
where spirits still mumble last nights casts
charcoal symbols smudged into gray
along the chalklines of tired soles and hands
and she's stum
bling on the candles,
stumbl
ing on the candles,
burnt,
trading prayers for curses,
trading her soul for his words
undressing the pure
to wear the whore


because this hunger has no logic, no sense.
this hunger is unholy, more sacred
than the essence,
this hunger is what comes
with the pulling of strings,
the leaving behind without walking the steps,
is a month of slow cramps
before eternal bleeding
("pour me out" it says
"pour me out, it says
"let me feed on myself").


she breaks taboos and enters
the land of warningsigns,
grabs the devil by his silent tail,
pours herself into his eye.
and there is a notion, a feeling
of towers falling in the background,
but it is too late, yes,
we're erasing the fates, see
the dolls are already pinned and melting


and there is no pain, no grief
only the rush of fluids
through veins and cells,
because this hunger has
no breath of its own,
it simply is until not.