Don't ever let them hate on your body for it is a striking mosaic of bones a relic of desire, peppered with nostalgia- wiggling hips like a dog bounding from the riverbed. Your belly button is deep and soft a likeness to a shellfish- your skin is fuzzy and uncharted and your fungus white …
Under photos of Zaragoza and them her hands grind Moroccan tea the girl- with her fences built high belly button pierced, her face smelling of honey and green tea. She believes in energy and angels in sweet lavender and Eucalyptus but not in you. She’s been to Cambodia and back in her head- a pilgrimage …
These are crystallised visions
Dancing too close.
Instruments of the deep blue;
Fish hook kisses,
Raging rip-tide tongues.
These lights are an alien sky
Scoop music or
Struggling spirits –
Slipping, yolky through florescent fingers –
Into steel-basin chests.
Phosphorous, unbound waves take us
Swaying in its swell of salt.
If we vomit tonight,
It’ll be jellyfish
Blubbery and full of washed up wishes.
Hips swing in rings of infinity
The Steady, instinctual pattern of bees
“Honey” They mouth;
Choked women’s voices
All those messages bottle-necked,
Annexed in Adams apples.
Tribal painted we chant
A song unknown to us
Possessed by the drums and
Something ungendered and primal-
Sequined wings exposed
To hungry hands.
A mosaic of color and acute angles spills above our heads. The electric momento is a decomposing souvenir of faces squished against glass dancing like pale moons in a oneiric trance.
Her soul is June's yellow telling mine about the sun fingers, white Galanthus bulbs turning me to Midas Gold. Her voice is like a naked mist danger concealed in an Alchemist's kiss her eyes are but dichroic glass so sickly sweet and opportune.
My mawkish depth slips, unfettered between this earth and the next: in my lukewarm place dejecting saints snagged tendrils of thought, resting in an uncloaked ivory of milky rot.
I often wonder if our existence is a mistake rising, falling left with little room to make art: tangled puppets in unforgiving scenes others, the arbitrator of our contentment. Peel back the film and there is a depth of kindness scarcely imagined: the sentiment of cassette tapes and flickers of tomorrow in the …