Silence licks a metonymy, without those localizing articles you saw and ordered from Ghaza. Rhododendrons unruffle among shifts of iceberg pause, almost lactating with barbs. I listed each in its own table, and then queried what was softer than I. The bytecode docking in premature thickness. The awkward hallow of introspection. Insecticide tickling over my fingers like a bald spray of lisping baby's breath, this thread that splits ends nowhere near where you snore, or else I would come to get you. To kiss you. Seems almost lucid when the pendulous daylights slip across me.
A coal morning of slow participles needs cigarette food in silence unlocking unquiet cat's feet upon my bloodied boots. Today I'm covered by the film of loss, flickering gauze just fit to my skin, won't wash off. You kissed my dreams raw until they stung and I got up, robot water and coffee flung agravated from my eyes. I keep asking you if it's true there are things softer than myself. "This room is the exact same color as old wine." You failed to mention my confidence, which omits any and all such cacophony of intimacies. I pry daisies from your shadow, worn like a tan into my complexion.
This skin (which is mine, nourished in your heart) kills everything wintered by a long frantic walk.
The adjectives cluster. A novel evolves at the mention of igniting spider tines. "Stuck. You don't want to pin me to living with you like a fucked-up child. Sucking another raw sunrise, you see the difference." I must have left the equations in my other coat. Aspiring to a matte finish, Christine who loves the cocaine loves an afternoon's obelisk, even when my head's erad by silicon. "Who wouldn't find that bleeding edge erotic?" Christine's ended, too, buttocks spread like a Cobra's hood. Brad reached into, pulling toward him the tray shivered with these vvials of serum. "Fuck me harder. Fuck me like you fuck your dad*" It's quiet now. The word for the day is autodidact. Ducts ramble in a quagmire as acid; as acid is access to voluptuousness uprooted or re-routed somewhat; at access is issue, of consequence, hereto. I lay my hand to Brad. Last night a cop on my block tried to get off. Christine tells us: cells, lepidoptics, staining glass until it trembles with your veins. At least you end your login session with a kiss. I'm stuck here with Brad, an absolute other; he's autistic, a system pistil of amorous withdrawal, but then Christine's insides are a butter of silk.
"Would you like to see my collection? Everyone who has ever loved me has given me a lousy t-shirt. On days like this, when the gravity's so low we can't seem to stay together, I take my bowl of grapenuts out onto the back deck to watch the sun rise. " Snow moans, so chilling they swaddle my throat mid-gulp. Brad notes that Christine mentioned once that I claim to be responsive with a cube of ice, stroking it as if drawing the moisture across your chapped labia. In the dessert, sand is whipped to the consistency of topaz; articles seperate luxuriously from their objects, leaving me strung out behind the dunes and not sure and not if I'm single or plural, reciprocity of the feminine or heart-gnawed recitation of the shelves of a knifed sky expiring. "Yeah, she's like that sometimes* "
I know you are, but what am I?
Brad, where did the outside go? "Straining light to separate articles from their objects, there is no designation giddy with ideals. The pure form of you is a myth I bite with grappling eyes." The Upanishads mention a delicate androgyny of hydrogen as this mother, as this father: behind my cock, waves that solve, threading in a pant of mouths. Cover yourself for God's sake Christine! "Hydrageas subtly echo across your chest. "
Not that you are unengaged. No money no hope. Not. I have boundless enthusiasm for every undertaking I took.
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