He told me what you taste like. |
Your flesh is coconut vanilla in a pink cunt husk. [wet moonfruit] Open me up. I have to write about a dragonfruit boy his scales green-tipped who's picking off the petals of white flowers like thunder covering the damp earth. His toes are testaments every one a tablet of commandment he will cut the name of tree down and give it to his love. A peartree prophet crouched beneath the raining moonflower and asked if I felt safe behind your eyelids. He told me words were just a way of crushing feel; your syntax like anvils on a sea of breathing kittens, stirring restless asleep and hungry for love. He told me what you taste like. He told me all your sticky dreams. I want to burst the pits of your black bit seeds, crushing anger thoughts not quite sesame, a full stop in your flesh. [africa night] Peel away at me. There is an antelope girl running through my veins and the slope of my spine all the steps of my discs selfishly grind as she climbs surefooted into the gulf of my mind. She peels me like brackets segmented orange skin. My savannah rustles. I think she's a sin. Mornings we make spoons double comma peardrop juice shallow curves in the song of her swelling form; we make ourselves up as we go along. |