Just as I began to breathe,
while virgins decked the world
hollyhocked in myconeum
and drizzled into cribs,
I fell forward in hog-mouthed gasps—
for milk, well, copper for the armature,
and I was hugged while drinking, salt
in step, a notion erupted to feedings.
When, as by a crisp wafer bitten,
I broke naked to the doors,
the two people enjambed
my heart in pajamas where my feet
were rats or rubies, nubs of running.
I did all I was glimpsed upon to do.
It was trust, see, holy ominous,
the shit, trust,
just as I began to breathe.
Overclocked
The pail of this person is always assessed
by its fill of things I don’t want to carry,
sequences and mashes of things others state
I am lax to entertain past solve.
My parents come to visit
and I appear very wholesome.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.
