Tag Archives: Daryl Sznyter

The perfect dress.                           My mother’s dress.                                    I envy the dress.             Pretty yellow dress.      I.   Pretty.   Mother.         My mother hanging the dress. My mother.                                                      Hanging.                                          Dress.                         My mother hanging in the dress.   I.   Envy.                     I envy hanging. I envy hanging the dress.                                                               I envy hanging in the dress.                                        I envy hanging my mother … Continue reading →

forest light on your skin clatters what does a sinkhole smell like we are sinking floating fishes mold and permutations i’ve always been afraid of the umber in your eyes you are singing a song you were always singing a … Continue reading →

Thom Yorke’s voice rings like church bells          and my skin sizzles with the holy-shit fires                and my brain becomes a mockingbird singing                      over the church bells                            and I momentarily forget about the boy                                  who sparked the flame                            that orchestrated my … Continue reading →

somewhere feelings are the color of salt                     somewhere twilight isn’t so greedy                      somewhere i smash dishes against the wall                                                    i drown out the noise of violent bodies somewhere feels like home                        feels like heaven          i could call you without repercussions            somewhere i love … Continue reading →

He brings her back from the scene of a crash only to force her open like a locket, struggling to find a home for the scalpel. Her skin splits at the blade. Festering fruit. Its vacuous stench pricks the nostrils … Continue reading →

I believe in broken screen doors, eyes clenched shut like fists, bricks and the diluted blues of the old picnic table in a back yard I no longer call my own. These things were my father before you replaced him … Continue reading →

the women dump water down drains that do not exist. oh daughters of being! oh bird-faced ones! you are but part of a dream from which i cannot wake, a parable in which my face collapses in on itself, becoming … Continue reading →

the autumn sky is tacit and i am robed in gravel. the woodland earth is glued to me. to remove it would be to remove my skin. to remove my feeling. to kill the grasshoppers that descant to us. i … Continue reading →

I present them to you no longer guarded by socks. I cut the word “cut” into the insoles to get your attention but leave the arches pearly, a gift for your lips. Toes ripe as plums, you will want to … Continue reading →

the clouds are not three dimensional the sky is not a picture book home is our version of utopia something that will never exist because to desire is to desire there is a reason people don’t follow their dreams in … Continue reading →