the couleur of shroud

By Brit Parks



her mouth is only their mouth 



In shambles beneath a 
puffy perfection
filth eats grit.

they said i could also
have a new tooth 

beheathen into repose
decide upon your nothingof


the couleur of shroud

an ethereal pout

dragging       twitching


Sometimes I cannot breathe properly.

Sometimes too properly.

A habit is not a liberation, it is the trap of your bone memory that perhaps is not even your own. 


silent sever


I am going to have you followed. I cannot
tell you when it will stop. Surely you will 
notice when there is no longer a shadow. 


Glass powders make him a lost wax casting

I want your gauze-forth truant
morph into your longing

for once


Only coarse souls will ever be deceived by it. 

Be calm, my sorrow 


I tried to recall you
fragments of several others rose to claim
your image

I knew then that you were an admixture of 
the lost


It was then we dragged it
drugged it
the sleep of the missing


Brit Parks is a poet and artist. She is the recipient of The Clare Rosen and Samuel Edes Emerging Artist Semi-Finalist Fellowship. She received both her Master of Fine Arts and Bachelor of Fine Arts from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She is featured in the current issue of RINE and was previously published in after hours. She has exhibited her films at The Chicago Underground Film Festival and Chicago Filmmakers. She resided in New York for ten years and currently lives in Seattle.

© 2015