Slow and quiet from the periphery of your years I come to sully you.
I am like an ant, a ship, a sock, an earthquake you didn't feel.
I come blank, watching, to soak in you like foam.
Discreetly I lay down plans, actions, secrets.
And I land planes, secretions—
I do those things to prep your three dimensions.
I am a doctor, a labourer, as well as the mother of fruit.
I am alone.
I am misguided.
Someone says I am misguided.
What controls attraction to weeping willows versus pines or palms?
Do those colliding clichés that do anything for love know when to fold you?
When I see, I see only you.
When I think, I see only you.
It is your face that fucks me, your face with which I play video games at night.
This is all your face's doing.
What controls chance? You should kill it.
It is your face that fucks.
Your face that fucks up everything.
6 days ago
4 comments:
dude.
out of the ballpark.
like, that shit exploded the sun.
This is another one of your poems where I really would prefer to read it hidden under the table, quaking in mortal fear.
smiley face emoticon.
no. the winking one.
mmmhmmmm
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