Icarus and Beets are for eating

Beet Hope
(Or “My Problems with Writing So Far”)

Damp purple scar
Severed from the weep
Unrealistic and far

Love to live each day as though dead
Sleep state clouds
With narcotic sugar
Darkness packing around skull
Pat the earth around many ventricles
And onto journeying
To lands far below

Wait

Hope sits upon my seed
Pressing, warmly, blindfolded strumming her dual harp
Urges us toward the mundane and dirty
Mud feeding aspirations for wider skies

Teachers reveal paintings from the Tate
He reads the writing and wonders, “Will she ever find her way?
She can’t spell you know
And fails at expressing Enough
and the little she does is too much”

Hiding Hope pushed above further
Escape the toiling farmer

“I love the way we speak of buried writers before us”
“He slid down the barrister naked”
“He was abused at school”
“They were orphans”
“She had a child at forty”







What will they speak of me?
Underground I will not make the anthology.



Or rather on a virus infested laptop
My words on the eroding yellow paper
Unlike Margaret’s, no one will type them out later.


Writing is for death
Beets are for eating
Above ground there will be no use for criticism
Only for consumption, vitamins and a cleansing shit.


The Icarus
(Going to Russia after a long rest here after many journeys)

Stir the pot
Coated with wax
Honeyed up in dew
Spirals of light
Melting outward
Planes let heat escape

Rings make a bed
So I can sleep
Begin to shake
Sweat and chills
Wings unfurl outward

Twitch from fear
Too much of the same sweet
ferments
to a sticky forgetfulness

Waking to remember with red eyes
Planes make me melt and drip
And die sober at least

Above lofty onions and the fallen beets
I Drip onto beauty

And crashland where The Icarus live.