Chris Crittenden
Gnats in Melee
rollicking prisms shrunk to dust,
breeze-hounded and sex-stung,
a nebula tethered to fire,
sprouted then dismantled,
vibrating with unseen eggs -
a bazaar of breath
fused to a hoopla of slivers -
crazed phantasmata,
rapt fountain of membranes,
airy nucleus of insectoid hydrogen.
this ganglion of swamps,
puzzles and societies,
jitterbugs with sunlight
in scrambling glints.
frogs fixate on the fast hypnosis,
scanning sparks like those
in their own meat -
the fraught marrow of nerves
where instincts lunge like long tongues
tangled in the brain's gut.
these heralds, size of corpuscles,
flickering between dark and blaze,
they tattoo my cheek with boisterous death,
prophesying with milliseconds -
and a vigorous apathy that has no hands,
no uterus, no face -
they sculpt like erosion,
whittling stony miasma,
sprinkling the frantic quartz
over a gravestone of years.
Dark Touch
we move across each other
like snakes on a hunt,
silky then thickening
like cement, striking
our caduceus pose,
forked to forked,
gimlet-tight,
screwing each other
down, through lewd
striae, down
through buried momento
mori,
ignoring their fatal glee,
following the roosterfish plumes
of hornfels, erupting
into a ventricle hot
with the scent of lava,
that bright iron blood
hypnotized and magnetized,
binding us in an orbit of crave.
how many times have we circled,
splitting apart into ooze,
fusing again-how many times
this recurring pulse
over a dreadful core?