The problem with photographs is, you can't hide much in them

a telegram floats over the radio'd interference

palamine toothbrush
between rouged and buddhist lips

sponge sky

penguin restless
the knotted ropes of limbs feather upright

she disappears stage left, in a blue bikini............the stars bending their capes over the simple east

foxtrot in a foxhole, foxy fish

i snagged my sweater on a corner of your star

a quivering root at high altitude

a bowl filled with blood....................month of mondays hammering nails into sores

lamp nostrils
bishop sacrifice in a stone tower

wind winds it's way toward my home
my aztec hazelnut
my squirrely woman

your body unlocks a long river

i want you, i want you to be somebody
you glitter, radiant night!
and i am becoming virgin for you
the tiniest bird in the tiniest wooden box


1 comment:

Anna Montana said...

Luckily ~ they kinda do.

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