seamless words

There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs
each night
 
  The noises I hear are blasphemous
without an address or a paper face

I call these flutters- 'fermentations'
and 'vapourized dreams'.
 I consider my half sagging bossom
perched upon life- somewhere giggling
with open mouth
playing hopscotch.

I imagine toothless girl in a desert with red balloons-
an aesthetic that we can talk about.
You see- this poem is not about my illusions
but talks about the crisscross roads
even the ocean
even your eyes-
your mouth.

This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps?
Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?

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