Me, whatever that may be.
Don't waste your time on truth, seek beauty instead.
I once loved a girl who would shudder in her sleep. Her silver torso would tremor, and gasp, and grief would moisten the air. She would roll into me crossing a gulf of gray sheets, until finding purchase in my chest with eyes closed. Deep depth charges would burst springing forth from her burgundy hair pooled on the pillows, the shock waves welting my skin, then falling as echoes, joining the carpet, joining the adorned sheets, the discarded clothes. In those late hours I would kill monsters. I would crash against shadows within shadows. Would watch her hours long visage, her furrowed eyebrows and gray eyelids. Watch her fathers slacken, and release from her face. In those hours I knew what her oak trees knew, when the limbs were further away, branching overhead with knotted eyes cross stitching sunbeams, wind-kissing vocals shuddering with orange and red tongues while she watched black spidersspin venom in the peace.©josiahcowens
I was called Lover,by her.I found this pet nameso unique,so endearing and alluring.The quickness of herSeptember soaked wordsfading into falsehoods,framing and propping upanother bed,another shape of skin,hollows out that capital L,and fills it with different blood.Foolish, stupid, child.You were just lover.Not Lover.©josiahcowens
I bleed in frontof her.Cut my chest with wordslikeundulateand silver.The streams flow as wine stems,drunk like Cabernet,suffusing so warmly acrossmy nakedness.She is prone below me,in a Malbec pool,bathing and plucking the vines,consuming red wordsstraight from the source.My fingers reach inward,gripping heart heavy lust,ripping out lines and muscle,blood and prose,a fistful of tangled limbslooping round veins of ink.We are aged in trauma soakedbarrels.Blooming from plump hollow grapes,culled within pens,stolen from the bodyby my hand.A craft leaking blood,to soak soft skin,sold for a fewfuckinghours.©josiahcowens
Everyday in a Control Room
A shrieking phone hits alert,we all wish for a stroke,a stroke would be preferable,to the mother wailing likepipe bombs,and the father who nowunderstandsgravity.©josiahcowens
I will not letinconsistency and dishonestygouge my eyesand blind me to the promiseof this world.I will strike backwith clenched faithand wild, recklesstrust.©josiahcowens
Prairie Evening With....
Even when watchingcobblestone cloudsfloat upon tide pool skies,and bronze fields dapple the surface,ISeeYou.Not in any effigy,or body as true as trees,but in your absence,which looms like water towers.The quiet moments now roar,like funerals,stretching the tall grass withblack shawls and silent motorcades.Your body should be here,holding hands with the cracked earthand placing the evening cloudswith me.©josiahcowens
Words should be anvils,fashioning steel beneath blows,blazing brilliant red,popping sparks against a sooty night.On your tongue,words are crumpled notesmuddy and frayedfloating in oily puddles.©josiahcowens
I have friends.I am loved.A fermented front porchpushes windand inward emptinessto the stars,which we see,together,and laugh at god knows what.©josiahcowens
A Girl at a Vineyard
She's all armsand legs,propping upa bashful downward stare,while she flushes strawberriesfrom above eyes,that smile through the horizon.Smile through hours,days even.©josiahcowens
Brothers Round a Stove
My brother's blood no longerfloatsin the thin waters of the Currentand the Buffalo.Now, it laps the Pacific,thickened with ferns and hanging moss.He keeps the thermostatat sixty five,back and front doors open,so we gather roundhis black wood-pellet stove,which spits and pops with the gloom,like the fires we absorbednext to those gentle rivers.Between the embers and words,beauty and truth,circle with Pamplona pirouettes,the dance no less ornate,no less invested in death.And the flowing flamesreach back through the mountains,and the endless empty prairie,The EndlessEmptyYearsTo bind the blood with campfires,and release the powers of place.©josiahcowens