If I thought of myself as an egg
Fully able to turn over
And continue frying,
You would be the olive oil
That tore my skin
As I waited to hear your number
And you quietly insisted on my request,
Those six hairs defying the rest of your features.
Until I reasoned I should return
To a pdf manuscript on novels, knowing
Quite eventually,
That I shuffled
In the steel-drum cacophony of sleep.
Potassium will burn out —> Sulphur —> burns green.
I want to be the belt of elastic
Beneath your striped cotton waist, fastened
Just above the goose-bumps that hold your pubic hair,
Where motes gather your expired epidermis.
Pericles defended against Xerxes —> gets exhilaration in return
Yet, displaying a request for bowling
On the New-York-City kiosk of your face
Never makes it past the advertising team
And I instead turn the page of my printout.
Alex the Great —> proved self via horsemanship —> pressure
Defines rulesmanship
Live with me to be eighty
And we’ll catch all the clouds
We have yet named
By their phylum, species, and order,
And craft the precocious breath of a rare breeze
So we may come to be like
Summer greens &
Their impermanent weather.
I wish to bring you to contact
On an exquisite quilt and easy murmurings
To hide your figure with my voice
And your Frida-Kahlo attitude.
Alex —> politically overcomes to expand eastward —> creates city-states
— and one would imagine this should motivate me
To insist we go bowling,
Yet when I have established
That you will not show, here you walk
With a green cardigan and charcoal hat
That I have not seen, mildly swaybacked
At the sandwich station
As I clutch my cookie
And paper cup
Between thinning fingers.
When the light came in to look through the morning
Upon what should have been your face
And my sheets
Melting from your shoulders,
There was only the foam of sugared remains
In a speckled mug
Of old Lipton tea.
Categories: Poetry
