On Fenrir

A demon, you say? A boy with blank eye sockets and lips of fire-restless words tumble from his flower of a mouth; I think Ashbery talked about this in some helium light manner, and Blake in his heavy, fleshy way. See, all the poets warned me but I used no discretion: Split up the middle, I ate every seed and became Persephone. I drank blood oaths, the sun feeling more empty with each sip- My tongue flashed wetly across Heaven. A spectre without punctuation, blue and frozen in half dead thought-light pours down through the grave- the dirt was not packed down tightly as hoped. On the streets, we blush, squawking awkwardly of trite matters in public like a mask we take off in the hours the sky is made of charcoal. I will shine a dull brass if you will be Fenrir; promise to devour my small sliver of daylight? Substitute words for alcohol, I haven't eaten in days: preoccupation Chasing Ghosts. "On Fenrir" Jenna-Nichole Conrad Wordsmith