i will call you bernadine and the night lamp. the german apostrophe from brooklyn heights. your punctuation marks. and alphabetic consonants. and loving doves. have frisked a charm of fevered alchemy. you stripped my clothes by the shallow banks. every motion of your finger tips made my nipples tremble. oh what resistance there was. playing hide and seek on the shallow lakes where we bathed in moon clouds and rain. that smell. of soil and seeds. and carousels. still makes me dizzy.
and spin like the moon. the lustrous beast of harmony and quartets. my manhood, like a garland of dreaming sapphires. bending over the arch of delicate flash lights. they signal a sense of capitalist promiscuity. this is my power. the sanctity of my sexuality gives me strength to learn about the vagaries of your austere politics. you flaming misogynist. you raging bigot. your fierce tendrils of thorn and crystallized sweat. makes me so angry. makes me sad. you know. sometimes, when you want to tell yourself there are rose gardens in chelsea. and the storm came. and one by one, you tied bracelets to the macabre wind chimes. and you howled on a saturday dusk. your stomach carved with a million ribbons. candied with hope and organic desires. this valentine's night. you cut your soul, and with the red. you hemmed memories on pine cones. and those cones, now. are on the museum behind the lake. where mankind goes in shame. walks away. walks across portraits of a Dali. and a surrealism and shrouded the politics of your liberty. your hands are tied. and you bleed. convulse in a violent epilepsy. this violence is the trilogy of your interrupted birth.
on the carousel. we talked. evolution. and the fittest. you. on the throes of nature and demons. have survived a test among the millions
and spin like the moon. the lustrous beast of harmony and quartets. my manhood, like a garland of dreaming sapphires. bending over the arch of delicate flash lights. they signal a sense of capitalist promiscuity. this is my power. the sanctity of my sexuality gives me strength to learn about the vagaries of your austere politics. you flaming misogynist. you raging bigot. your fierce tendrils of thorn and crystallized sweat. makes me so angry. makes me sad. you know. sometimes, when you want to tell yourself there are rose gardens in chelsea. and the storm came. and one by one, you tied bracelets to the macabre wind chimes. and you howled on a saturday dusk. your stomach carved with a million ribbons. candied with hope and organic desires. this valentine's night. you cut your soul, and with the red. you hemmed memories on pine cones. and those cones, now. are on the museum behind the lake. where mankind goes in shame. walks away. walks across portraits of a Dali. and a surrealism and shrouded the politics of your liberty. your hands are tied. and you bleed. convulse in a violent epilepsy. this violence is the trilogy of your interrupted birth.
on the carousel. we talked. evolution. and the fittest. you. on the throes of nature and demons. have survived a test among the millions
No comments:
Post a Comment