Pollen wells up in your eyes and births streams breaking through the dirt and grime of skin where tufts of daffodils grow, one for all your idealized dreams.
Under the shade of pines you're making love to these trees, enough to have you sneeze.
Det regner trollkjerringer, but we'll get back to that. First lemme remind you we were young saplings once growing up the tropical way, roots intermangled, trunks up and twisted and a canopied head that caught all the rain because you have such a thick skull, you know?
the world cuts you up, not because of your fault lines but because you're rich with birdsong where every day is a story, your guava, my apple your tiger, my horse.
Sometimes there's a shame in your cry, and no end to the rain. My folks and I, we say like: its raining trollwitches,
and I see you and I'll agree that you need to let them out.
The tongue of the sea is salty, and not of the fleshy way of long collected sediments, but of a churning fire hungry in the deep.
In this way, I have the sea in my guts and veins I have this lightening storm strike of a heart beat ambition the onward raging stroke of a swimmer, we kick arms and legs and breath and head.
Not every girl aspires to the chase of whales, but when we do, we make waves.
somebody be a dear and remind the doctor: his stethoscope belongs to me now.
as sure as he dare place some cold metal disc to my heart and call it listening, we cannot go on.
i have this pound of sag and flap and cellulite but to me what's unhealthy is how the forks and knives clink out more conversation than what we do in a fortnight.
Your bagpipes appear to be dummied up in these cattle lands, and we scarcely hear your noise anymore.
All is too quiet here, and before we suspect the opiates, the cottonseeds, the dust it all tumbles and flowers and penetrates through to the cracks of your skin.
We exist as felons.
We're flooding everything down our path, drowning it asphyxiating it, dropping the hammer where nothing bubbles back.
Israel's laws have long disappeared in these parts, and macaroni-mustacchioed men now gather with panty-loved breaths and each wanders to himself, how far up does this ladder go? they're fat on Swiss, but X-ray those wreckers long enough and you'll see it.
It is small and it is hidden deep and it still marches back to the sound of your bagpipes,
you've fed me in sushi rolls and I don't know, I suppose there's something about packed rice and raw fish, and the cold of it rolled up as an art bouquet of flowers
sometimes your oiled eyes seized up too quickly to flames, and butter-flaked skin dissolved away, all was sharp, hard bones where those chopsticks plucked away gradual-like until the sake clouds up and reflects not my face, but the smoked up motions of these feelings.
I think I dreamed about this once there was a way you said your words, slurred and slippery as an eel and that electrifying swish of a tail slap in the eyes
when I found out: sushi means 'sour-tasting' and hungry, we fed upon these all our years.
a boy by the well wears sandals made of elephant ears and seashells,
so that he feels big when he walks with his bucket so that he can hear the ocean in his ear as he drops down his bucket and imagine herds trumpeting with glee as he hauls it back up again
his water is the sweet crisp of mountain song and scarce, but he can go thousands of miles and more by sandal legs.
I guess I fall in love with the foreign, the way that it feels and sounds and story tells something new but not.
& here comes the day: soft, from the scent of talcum, bruised, from the drear of dawn—
by the wake of whispers overturned bottles click at my touch, like jewels I can rattle them off: carboplatin, etoposide vinorelbine.
those moments before swallowing, I can feel how there's more and more air that flows within my veins & I get preoccupied now with how my body floats, how it drifts almost out of ways—
by then I cannot stop myself, there's not an anchor left.
I am not sure why they call them that; perhaps for its bounding trellis, wild as a gale breathes and swells her life inside these wombs I cannot see anything to them but giant pots
perhaps for its melon melodies, cantos canterbury orange balladries,
it is a basket weaver that shell of yours a maze runner, fat and artistic
or perhaps it is my plump stomach weighing me down
The wine flows tonight and up flies the corks, and suddenly we're a throng of jubilant faces fevered in dance, spangled in sweat and love and drink; there is jazz in our eyes youth in our veins where my skin burns of glow, and there, in a quiet nook, a red moon streaks in and bathes us sweet in its nectar and I'm a locust dipped in its amber stuck between immovable and unstoppable.
I see our future, how in a hundred years when you've uncovered my body found me petrified in stone and froze and alone you will see this part of me here gone by the moment, but still hanging on to the skirts of your eyes, grasped in every blink, braced in every dream.
It shall feed us long after the candle blows, after the last glass is served and they on their wayward footsteps go, this moment will rebuild us long after the beauty fails, and the bats roost inside the caves of our heads.
It's a pity the dictionary has only one definition of beauty. In my world, there are 7.9 billion types of it- all different and still beautiful. — anne27
Gender:
Points: 5533
Reviews: 696