bone segments (parts i–ix), by Sara Matson

<bone segments>

 

<see also: family history as fable // fable as history // truth as fable // a fabled historical truth>

 

<i>
sorrow is a rushing heat cauterizing
the vulnerable naked (human) effort
a goddamn mystery // a goddamn misery

see also: sadness raises fever // be naked // or not, whatever // ur mystery // that terrible misfortune // confusing the floater in your right eye for a gnat _ swatting wildly at nothing on the bus home //

 

 

<ii>
faun’s lecherous intent // throttled by vapor
a rotting thunderstorm dancing across
suicidal toes, cuntryside irradiated
by loss – a stain spreading across my face

see also: faun’s hobby of squeezed steam // rotten thunderstorms causing suicidal rashes HIDE UR DAUGHTRS // THIS IS PROBABLY NOT A DRILL // loss is a stain // grotesque wine burned across foreheads, thigh gaps, crushed lips, etc. // OK THIS IS A DRILL BUT U STILL HAVE 2 PARTICIPATE BRENDA //

 

 

<iii>
she maintained an insistent cosmic shimmer
like all exploited
godmother hell hounds //

see also: she’s the light of the robust universe // crying on her bed // her 13th birthday: is this what it feels like to be a teenager? bumblebee furred lip quivering against the whisper of sickly walls? // all alike, all misuse Grandma’s Hell Hound’s Hound // fuck // ur mother is perfect ur mother is a queen // i drink to the slutty mothers // garbage tire goddess // get me a shot i’m drinking // a collaborative effort //

 

 

<iv>
raked across boiling
marble // a convulsion
of solidarity
the crone spat
bubbled teeth into puckered
goatskin and
smiled and smiled
smiled and smiled
bathing in the slit
of euthanizing
ash flecks tumbling in
meaty open
wounds glazing over
empty glass eyeballs

see also: RUN

 

 

<v>
broken shudder translates
my ache // quell
pink femurs behind
fusionless masks

see also: wet headed // waiting for delivery (homeopathic cough drops) // lips
split to kiss away the broken bits // what does it mean? // NO U KNOW WHAT IT MEANS. U KNOW. DON’T PLAY. DON’T U PLAY WITH ME.  // yeah yeah. i got it //

 

 

<vi>
everything – my church
bells to whiskey table tennis
wasted
in delicate aromatics while
orphans whip a
shivering cloud into
forgiving satin yards
(embalming centuries)
of exquisite taste
inside their tiny dirty
sternums

see also: aww, there ARE tiny dirty children in the world, aren’t there // s h i t c o c k did i pay the electric? // swirl of earl grey tickling the newly sprouted nose hairs she thinks no one notices // did you see -a–‘s nose hair? heard of ball wax, bitch?!? (lol/emoji/barf emoji/emptiness emoji/square jaw emoji) // a coffee table book with gruesome images of exploded heads each segment documented in sterile white // echoes wet slapped against the linoleum wall handwritten photographs detailing each spurt and cream //

 

 

<vii>
love is a banshee’s memory
or deathless major planet
+ oxygenation of puddles //
tea cups keep frying
the stench of
burnt celluloid permeates
sweater vested interests

see also: there are rules, you know // too late to be obtuse. the world is already dying  // like the time you were almost hit by an ambulance in Otaru !! LOOK LEFT !! would have been the last english thing you ever heard, torn across a lit bridge // dear uncle, what language do you dream in? // i had a friend who could only scream in tagalog until he woke up with no eyebrows or eyelashes and then his family moved (i don’t know if the incidents were related) //

 

 

<viii>
ice cream makers
use their fridge door
like a tipsy lunch
(w/ jealously + an abundance of
edifice)

a thick surprise
genteel knack w/
prickly cancer flailing
toward simple daughters

see also: simple daughters demanding transparency // ensconced in preserving men + relevant historic individuality between the lawyer layers // a brilliant + spectacular iteration contrasting
whispers broken across urgent leathers // somber or wild precious + dazzling // this must be it, a testament to rethinking honor and horror // forever dreaming of sleek bodies under exotic hides // like a subscription to People magazine //

 

 

<ix>
emotionally arthritic crawl
slogging across the carpet w/
purposeful movements

she searched for her
toothpaste paint
refreshing viscosity in
emerald green racing stripes
down bamboo handled
mouth tools

an unwilling kind of
battle, a process to inhabit
the spare champagne
to sparkle flatly while
redecorating solitary partnerships
w/ sweaty effort
(paradise found)
like dinner plate dahlias
or a cosmos
ricocheting drunkenly thru
battered photographs

see also: the newest marvel movie, probably // pop culture in general, mostly // that kind of heat that stretches in sticky plastic across summer breasts // that singular leaf that encompassed the growth and change of your 20s, before you got too high to live and it died // porch whispers // my best friend slept in my bed that night and as we giggled ourselves to sleep i knew i would die for her // i’ve died many times // usually piss soaked and fuming //

 

Published 15th January 2019

 

About Sara Matson

Sara Matson’s writing can be found or is forthcoming in The Journal Petra, Theta Wave, Dying Dahlia Review, Vagabond City Poetry, Déraciné Magazine, Mannequin Haus, Soft Cartel, Dream Pop Press, and elsewhere. Sara lives in Chicago with her rad husband + cats, and Tweets as @skeletorwrites

Close Menu