| this is oh so blue A MAGAZINE OF FICTION, POETRY & MORE! |
| black |
| this is black shadow |
| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ISSUE #20 $O.OO |
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| Sept. 2004 |
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| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Spencer Dew's work has appeared in Cautionary Tale, Pendeldyboz, Sexy Stranger, and Word Riot, among others. He lives in Chicago, where he is completing a novel. Email: DSpencerdew@aol.com |
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| © 2004 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| Waiting for Your Wake |
| by Spencer Dew |
| I want to eat your pussy, and I want the bombs to fall they say there's a highway and because your body means something to me the motels of the desert the green light of gas station convenience stores belly, your pyramid heels, flesh folds, your eyelids, the plump joints of your fingers somewhere beyond, far past, away from this city, electric night, train platforms the lake folds up upon itself, too, white on black, the smell of metal, dead fish, oil, and winter they say California will end diamond veins pressed into the hills of West Virginia cattle will roast in the fields and the corpses of pigeons will rain down on street and roof these trains drag past their stupid weight of numbers, paper, briefcases, and credit cards millions and millions the shifting, work day shadows under the pillars of the El a film of powdered snow they say that this is the last year on earth and to the end until that time and place: breathe woman, this is all I can say parallel lines receding into the distance smoldering, in the ruins I want to eat your pussy, and I want the bombs to fall the taste of copper in the wind towers of flame, to melt away, to blister and burn to stand, scorching, skeletal, self-evident as lip line, holes and mounds your tender neck muscles or that blue-tinted oyster of flesh behind the knee how many millions -- woman, pulverize -- live in this city? above the traffic, the world, your hips, your hair, your cunt clouds like ash cans like the wrecked carapaces of cars, steaming buses concrete shockwaves another train shudders war and the tremors of your body they say, woman, promises grand disaster, newspapers skipping across construction sites because your body highways, millions, motel light, smoldering come, bombs |