I know of a lady in white with a mouth full of promises, spreading a nocturnal path of flowers, like a longed kiss above the eye, a lady that slips in my chest, within the small rim of my fist, a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist. a lady with a potato peel, with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table, entangled like dust in her bun, mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder, a moment of purple sanity, a lady in white that lives in a suburban city, with marigolds just in her eyes. —————————————————————
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with our bodies colliding this night sings a song of petunia, a soft spring blooming behind our feet. A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.
The night is a tiny flower thumping against the sun-kissed breaths a hum of summer, a hum of winter.
The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows, a pathway to the flowering petals. Silver droplets of water, the body shrinks like a caterpillar now, sparkles of the rain, Too many screams now, too many abstract bodily postures.
This night delivers a tangled knot of whispers of leaves, like salt, the whispers rubbing our elbows, quietly. Hushed. A season of moist talks.
I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.