I have this disease. It involves perching at parties like some dark owl and slowly shifting into a circling vulture. But I've cracked a couple things like bones against a cliff. For one, every body is a capsule—a collection of lighters, lucky pennies, and pocket lint. And two, there’s no way for me to, reach into you and stretch into your fingertips like gloves. It's all in the synapsing—the way the fluid of your inner ear reflects the swishing of vodka in your stomach. Your evening is an arch, brought to you by the white round pill that carves you out in parabola. Still, there is no hearing. There is the outside world and then the way your ear canals whisper into your mind. All but your voice—which is softest when you have the most to say.
Sexy poem to cover my bases
I think a lot about the character everybody wanted to put babies inside of
a lot about cracked statues recovered satellites
I think a lot about voyager
I think a lot about gold
I think a lot about that thing the fork is going into
Are you ever the thing the fork is going into?
Are you ever driving through cotton fields at night
and everything around you is a pillow?
What words are you whispering into my pillow?
What words cast the spell that puts the babies inside of me?
What words make the moon just something good to look at but no place to go?
If I’m looking at my window and hear the hawk, is that the signal?
I think a lot about the longer my hair grows, the farther you are
about your face in my hair
I think a lot about becoming a pill you can swallow
I think a lot about growing my hair into a tent