Listening to Hieroglyphics and talking to my muse, who may be a girl with a cigarette holding a Coke by the neck.
Reading as though grass
itchy beneath my feet would
punctuate the beat in my head - innumerable -
we gotta talk, moonsister, it's
not the sun any more it's you
buoyed on night time grass
and soil
punctuating the beat in my head I may
melt but you
watch it all
unfold
petal from petal. Imagination I imagine
you ten million pinwheeling
colours we'll
write to the beat in my head turning to
you moonsister growing full
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