Dances Around Fences

37
Court Rooms and Gentlemen Heavy boots scuffling down the sand path. Sulked shoulders in agony, all leading to the camp. The camp where they buried mercy. Hundred faces all flushed out of blood A thousand fingers bony and starved like soldiers left to rescue. The rescue that murdered mercy. The past in their unspoken memories, unhinging, clinging, drastically illustrious. Leaving no trace of dignity, they sat side by side in utter silence. The cold air circulating the wood cabinets and worn out desks, sliding through their skin traumatized the eventuality of sweaty respect. The present a faux pas, the present an ultimatum. Restless night, cradling moon and spotty twilight sky. Lovers promised to spend each other to exploit the art of caressing. They never made it to first phase. Knuckles in fists went up guts, and women lay bleeding weeping. The men embarrassed, the men no longer gentlemen. The short lived life of high expectations in unborn children se ized.

description

Collection of Poetry

Transcript of Dances Around Fences

Page 1: Dances Around Fences

Court Rooms and Gentlemen

Heavy boots scuffling down the sand path.Sulked shoulders in agony, all leading to the camp. The camp where they buried mercy. Hundred faces all flushed out of blood A thousand fingers bony and starved like soldiers left to rescue. The rescue that murdered mercy.

The past in their unspoken memories, unhinging, clinging, drastically illustrious. Leaving no trace of dignity, they sat side by side in utter silence. The cold air circulating the wood cabinets and worn out desks, sliding through their skin traumatized the eventuality of sweaty respect. The present a faux pas, the present an ultimatum.

Restless night, cradling moon and spotty twilight sky. Lovers promised to spend each other to exploit the art of caressing. They never made it to first phase. Knuckles in fists went up guts, and women lay bleeding weeping. The men embarrassed, the men no longer gentlemen.

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The short lived life of high expectations in unborn children seized.

Tried and fried, the many lives of those cruel. The men, the women, the children in blood maroon. Today the trial goes on and on, no one's faced up to brutalities humming alone. The badged monsters of yesterday, the orphans of today, the scare crows of tomorrow sipping wine and characterizing their false splendour while in trials lost time lies dispensed.

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Honey WaterGreed, creed, race, jump through

gallop with pride.

The beer belly exists for a reason.

Storing up for the good days

while facing grim town.

Here is a toast to fresh memories

and those stone cold.

Soon, when the night rocks

the block in my head will pop

slowly releasing an aphrodisiac.

Ego satisfaction… in the fireplace.

Is the glass half full

or half empty?

Neither or none I say!

to catch the wagon down south.

The gates of heaven,

I never pictured so crowded.

With clergyman and nurses

ambulances and police.

The taut accent, the loose chin,

the glasses that sit only on the rim

far below the bridge.

A heaven full of bridges, willows

and ducks...

Quack quack!

Quick, quick I must run away.

Grim town and icy clouds it is,

where it's neither or none.

I only went far to come close.

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Snapshot gallery,

on acqua del miele.

The Might of the Knight This door, opens from space into void.

This key, turns a lock from outside in.

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This room, rattles me to where I hadn't been.

This hill, steep, green bearded transforms,

arched, bent backwards, into a cucumber.

The shadow of your back in the night

sloped and heavy like this hill.

Fir and conifers stuck in my hair,

unlike you; a clean leaf.

You're soap for your soul, hence mine.

This step, one inch closer to you

than my feet to the ground.

This hill lying in your iris

festering, pestering my only smirk.

Their dry dry dry heart

with us,

now beating against the wind

in the unity of this abandoned log.

This door, this lock opens

the canals of slumbersome days.

In void and space, for me to return to me.

Philandering Crystals I hid it like a miracle, then

found it was time to set it free.

It came, gently, tapping its feet on arid dust,

one by one, step by step.

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I covered it with mud and slugs,

not a nice place to live, but certainly shelter.

It sighed, I took its hand,

so no one would be tempted, to steal the shine.

I swallowed it and a big gulp it was, too.

Gluck, gluck, gluck...I cleared my throat

to a smooth lining and toned to mute;

for a dash or two, then crumbled to crumbs.

Whence, I fell into the gap

of dirty old pragmatism, bleached.

Broke my neck, knee and tree

floating ashore, dried to sea salt.

Maestro’s Midnight Ensemble

With that whip in your pupils

I went mad, kissing your satin curves.

You shone and rose, to know

what I could be, then you sank,

retrieved your tears

and wiped mine.

I find that my words lose essence,

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in your smashing whip.

I gather them to bottle them up,

and promise never to linger:

may be that’s the way.

Certain paths and embracing loss

in your tomorrow, in mine doubt

that itches; waiting for your fingers to scratch.

I am all here and you are

somewhere I can’t define.

When I go,

once I go will you look back?

Free yourself from the slap.

You know… I’ll be gone soon.

Tires will roll on wet dripping asphalt,

and one bag will do me,

you know that, too.

I’ll be one with the clouds.

With that whip in your pupils,

I will be dreaming, in golden liqueur.

You’re searching

I’m telling ….

Simple answers, in no more rhymes.

Come to the clouds soon,

once I’ve left.

Have me delusional, again.

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Maestro; Can and Does

Maestro can't run from this heart,he is troubled and serene.My maestro is fresh,slender as grass. My grass is at the bottom of the ocean,his is on some random mountain.I sweat the nights in his breath lackingon the back of my neck.My shoulder blade, a sword

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on the mattress.His blades of thrusting fearare coming in, just as monsoon.I am dreading to be flushed past the rivers of seconded minutes.Maestro is gentle and kindhe is sad and lonesome,though he has his midnight melancholyto drop him off at his bed,and me a more dangerous feel.My Maestro is scared,because he doesn't knowmy bruises can't heal,without his finger prints. He fears for he has burnt in fires,and has found no wiresto last his expensive buyers,of whom all know the value of gold,silver and the like. I know none of what he imagines,but I am one with him;love takes the shape of the lovedas thoughts mingle in their own twinkle. I can't run from my Maestro,like Tinkle Bell, I fight off envyand that nautica of caught philandro.I await him in the seas, the sands,

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the forests, the caves, the castles, the walls, the sheets, the boars of my desires.My Maestro knows his way, thoughlaughs my way too. I wonder at the past glass of his shattered expectations and crave him ever more.My Maestro, will bathe in fragrant waterwith meand as I do in him;the gap between our doors will meetto an absolute line of highness, pure as the whitest grind.The founded fears will yell louderin the ache of his muscles.My Maestro, for tonight, tomorrow andthe following week to last a century.

Blue, My GhostI'm on feather smoke clouds,

you are far behind, far below.

In my mind your marshmallow lips smile in tears.

You embrace the bottle from its neck.

I seek warmth in the black red tumbler.

A lonely soul I have come to be,

in the corridors of this spilling vessel.

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The horizon is empty,

there is a fine line between the glass blue

and the mist white.

Your skin, pale as silver

shining, I seek seek seek you

in all lines of the earth.

Beautiful ghost, don't you vanish,

or be erased by the hand that

shaped you, loved you, made you!

I listen to the opera,

and I listen to me, I listen to jet engines.

In nightmares I feel safe as a tiger,

for you will see soon there is a fine line

between glass blue and mist white.

I have come to cyan skies and

gold mounts of jungle hills.

There is only a thin veil

between me and you and

not miles and miles of prayer.

My blue ghost,

I close my eyes

and there you are splendidly lost

with that scar on your eyebrow;

two inches deep a thousand kisses weep.

You're driving across the country

with a knife in my heart.

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I am only a thin veil away,

come and cover up my sins

with your naked skin.

Come and touch my goose bumps

with yours, in salute for the sun.

Lovable Tap

Imaginary cat,brown eyes, white fur.Her name, Pat. She cooks and bakesand when I come backconverses Nietzsche and Sartre.Likes to drink Cabernet.She smokes misty cigarsso passes me one, too.

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Wears scarlet lip stick.When we go on a night out, with music loudshe hums Nina Simone, she recites Neruda.Likes medium-rare steak,eats like an eagle.Imaginary friend,out dining with Kant and laterout seducing Hepburn.She sips zealous fluidfrom her breasts and lips.My imaginary cat,everyone called Pat.Now I call her, fat. And now she knows,why the street snows.Pat, the cat.No longer, pet the cat. Imaginary glass and conversation,elapsed.

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Mademoiselle Merry

Wipes and cleans,

she reeks of bleach and soap.

Her timid weak hair,

the same with her scrub brush.

Once too dirty, twice far too sparkling.

Her soul needs cleansing,

so she chooses crockery to disinfect.

There is a little pore in her, open to suggestion

and in me too a sprinkle of hope.

Nevertheless, she cleans and oh, how she does.

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A manicure and a pedicure for the queen,

and a large black bin bag full of nails,

so she doesn't have to clean at all.

She rips herself, she collects dust.

She reeks of soap, she has no breath.

Sweat lips and armpits.

Oh,    how I watch her somewhere down

on this earth slowly sliding by.

No more bodies, no more souls,

no such thing as a clean slate, a clean plate,

a clean sheet, a frigid life!

Can't anyone hear this cracking?

Her hands, her knuckles,

her heart...

A blossom broken matador,

beaten on the hippodrome,

on hot ground trailing with dross.

She is always at a loss.

The lies of her life, born from pink one's

or some others’ blue cons.

She uses a toothbrush,

and a random toothpick to stay alive.

I slumber, as she strives.

On her knees, with a million ants

crawling through her skin,

she is my adorable Mademoiselle Merry,

she is my first Eve.

How I wonder who she is,

besides her spray starch and stinking polish.

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When all goes to waste,

she is my four leaf clover.

Yesterday she fell, doing the laundry

and a coin dropped, sharp on its side.

She is my wicked witch, bleached and dirty.

I am a due curse, waiting in a bibliotheque.

Offbeat Ponderings

The dawn came upon uslike an umbrella tucking the night.We lay in our thoughts and thought, slipping out...

Botticelli's angels.Only dark as red wineor a Java bean, without the grace of a sylph.

The words.Like mouth music from heaven or hell,on nipples marble

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and buttocks arctic when spruce.

Recreating human beauty.In an angel cagederect from desire,devout to leachy frenzy.

The clumsy existence of stars.

Those that descend hastily

and fall close to flesh;

phosphorescent, pubescent.

So amidst these parodies,

we shared only a swallow of this

and another world

on the meek surface of a granted orb.

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Frank-Einstein

I watched a movie and sobbed. A movie on architecture,I never thought could......stab this pin cushion.

The hand that built, was the one I passed by,were actually; the palms scaling with roughness,anchoring through time and space.

Those pyramids and gentle quartz sailsreaching out, breathing, shivering,seeking love in human eyes.Noone turned back for a second gaze.

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The aging fingers and crumpled papersglued together in imagination,to gather creative vaccinationin this solemn prayer to chant, life itself.

Six others watched with me, perhaps two more of him..The lonely curtain yelpedin the sinking appetite of velvet seats.

The fascinating child-like mind,and the sweet smell in snapshotscarved themselves in Dolby surroundto these walls around my cloud.

The linger of skin on the granite whispered.As it enchanted to itself, I died in life.In this quadrant of time, I blush the left dayswith sand in my caves.

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Apple Core Unravel the secrets of life to me, so I keep falling intentionally instead of digging my nails for bright starsand finding dirt lousy in loud buckets. Zig zags, tris-trams, grenades of quick rushesof love, running clear in fortuneless ivycoming to my home of neurotic silence. Silence, learnt in patience.Unravel the secrets of life to me, the time of poisons. Crack me a cocoa bean with your fingersand suck the powder sere,tarry with me to that bitterness on your tongueand light me up with truth on the roof. Hocus pocus and here comes much dreaded affection.Silence, has it been, the loveliest of passionsor have the dragons of fire spat ice?Unravel the secrets of life, when one is five.I have been five, ten and twenty, and ever more worthy. Fill up this bucket with hay and stones,for I am late and bronze.

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Sweetest Gremlin Trembling In uncertain grounds, a little creature lives,

it breathes, within.

You have given it a home, and care.

It has grown.

Once more; now, it grows.

Under the kiss of your mouth.

its heartbeat,

can be heard from the shop round the corner.

It doesn't take a genius to know

anything at all.

They say, if you break a mirror,

it's seven years of misfortune.

I never broke a mirror,

Now my end meets my beginning.

The little creature, aghast…

Still grows in the nest,thinking, 'what a fest'.

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I see you shifting your steps,Back to front, front to back.I know what you feel. In magic lands,miracles await, you must sustain.This little creature has to livefor he is life itself. How can you separate,lust and love,life and death,truth and falsity?I never broke a bone,in someone else's flesh,am I to be adored? I seek to be adorned by you,in scent and flesh,like your dressing gown;I shiver in. Thoughts wrap me abysmaland I weep. I mourn the dawn, each dayfor I will have to fray one day. A little creature lives,developing a soul in us.

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I feel it's breaking me. I resist to desist. This hour destroys itself,as I cover my mind in hopes. I resist to shiver. No vengeance, no fear and no revenge. This gremlin of mine,prettier than any other;for you must sympathise,grows under your eyelashes by peeking at me for lust. I quest to be drenched in you,in these walls I have built for us. These mirrors are shy.Now that I have shattered me with honesty, affection and lifeto be enhanced by you. I feed the gremlin.Crossing my fingers, the gremlinmight feed us one day soon,in the embrace of our kisses

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Canamoroc -42 was the bitterness.

42 was perhaps his life span

as he held his hands together,

sitting on a park bench

misty with blushing frost.

He had had a long journey,

to find his grave overflowing with grass.

From Morocco to Canada,

from sand to snow,

rolling eyes in a rolling steel vessel.

His 42's met

on the pool table of death.

His knees extended, his lungs shriveled

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in the sour melody of pallid breezes.

His shirt flanel; his jacket unbuttoned,

he became the statue of a man, alive.

Then the angels arrived,

to take him to the sand and the sea.

As his heart-cold blisters melted,

he floated down his imaginary Nile

only to return once again, to his -42.

Echoless Duck

Green necked, turquoise tailed

orange beaked, his quack died.

His voice, lost in his depth.

The duck has no sustainability.

His quacks leaking into air

like black smoke from a chimney;

his echo lost,

his tail stuck,

swimming in defunct waters,

diving to find

his shrunken sense.

The dinner table looks pretty,

with him in the middle,

glazed and pomegranate saucy like

the fat dripping into my mouth.

The duck echoless,

served with a side of apathy.

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Green necked, tenderly sliced.

The duck lost...amidst this plate

and the other in front of you.

Mmmm....delicious.

Sock in the Shoe I knew the day would come,

I anticipated it.

Now I feel like a dirty sock

in a lonely clean shoe,

free of mud and dust.

I am cotton and perishable.

I have a hole by the toe

where I hang down low,

with frenzy on my heels.

Only if I had some lather

and hot water

I could be new for another day,

but perhaps that's the easy way.

I could be in the tub, or the twirly

but again, that's another whirly.

At half time I could have fries, curly.

The toe wouldn't have it though,

she's a ball of tough dough.

Here I go down and under,

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the shoe, cold and soft.

I have to first slide my neck in;

warm up just a bit.

Then, may be my legs,

if the stink trapped allows me.

I knew the day would come,

I waited.

I counted the wash cycles

and missed them all.

Now I need to, climb.

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The Brick Terracotta, black, mossy

bossy standing

alive, breathing

absorbing.

One that stands out

flushed white, bleached.

Raped.

On the mirror, contused.

Seasons fall,

people call

that solid brick

so balmy and yielding.

Single, in solitude

fizzing.

Oceans’ surface,

bleeding.

Time no boundary

breaking aloud,

crevicing

still standing, the brick.

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My Hell

Across the sea,

across the land...

there is a space...

space is length...

length is infinite.

There is a painting,

called 'My Hell'

on my favourite wall,

right between

the two grand windows.

This painting,

amber, scarlet or dark;

This object,

from the distance of these feet

so close in the memory.

Across these hills,

I climb to

an opening, an entry.

The latch is broken,

imagination freed,

all that there is left now; the pursuit.

The journey long,

the voyage across mines…

across my mind

never crossed my blood,

always in flow with the cells.

There is a painting,

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in the criss-cross of thoughts.

There is a sculpture

in the space,

my bones yearn...

There is a paper cut

across this one bone.

Is it a fake?

There is a painting,

it's called 'My Hell...'

DreamIn sleeps' hug I left myself...Rocking train and burning sunset

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there goes my mind set.Oh me, just like a little senseless elf.

As I cherish my daydreamsreaching out to gather more;merciful dawning picks sweet cherriesthan just a haze of seeds.

The warmth, the surreal melting,of my hair on the train windowsinging for a funeral of mosquitoes'watch out, watch out, you are going to crash!'

That last classroom!This song now, I feast on.Bore and cone, the dream evolving.In canister shell; skull.

As though a trooper is,

marching against passages and potter alongs.

No tree is my umbrella,

can't even fit Alice in the keyhole there.

No substance can be

as my bee manufactured delight.

Oh sweetest dream, stay the life.

Just in case, I don't die.

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Trespassing There is a wet ticket in my mouth

it keeps absorbing saliva.

It swells up like a sponge,

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it melts like the insect too close to heat.

Oh, I could not go, I never made it.

The trains and the planes did not charge.

I am stuck on this platform

it is damp, it is cold.

Got Nada Dear Llama Mumbling, rambling, rattling.

Snake-tongued, murderous.

Cooling cabinets and loose change

all my life is, now.

Doesn't matter truly

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Doesn't really bother, my Muriel.

Pacing steps in pacing winds.

Dazzling sun and stars.

All is left for tomorrow, now.

Lowering baskets, for bread and milk.

Yesterday is a hidden serpent.

Doesn't really count, my Ariel.

Try to write, try to breathe.

Can never read through the castration.

Just keep rattling,

ts-ts-ts-ts ‘til tail tosses another coin.

Cooling cabinets empty now.

Doesn't really matter or does it?

Got nada dear llama.

From your friend s-s-s-nake.

Lost in Turns

Return, difficult to overcome,

like a hill that's too steep to walk on,

let alone to run to.

Return seems too sudden to float along to.

Return is another planet, I have left far behind.

Return is a lemon, on the tongue of a cow.

Return, is my mind, out of its place.

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In traces of nostalgia, return takes to me.

I don't dare take time, to find this in turn;

that all returns are of need and those that are not,

are of fresh seed; they rot in this dew.

Return packs my bags, return puts me to sleep.

Return makes me hopeful, that I may be me,

in this thought's cold light. That I may meet demise,

in my steps towards that lizard hill, slipping under my heel,

leaving me its tails, one by one.

Return, has turned towards me, I have skipped low.

Return, awaits my hair falling down onto the floor,

with each coal strand burning to gray ash.

As, I return, I return, return, return,

to that high drop, like an angel without wings,

or tricks.

I return.

Just

Just a square, only a triangle,

it was...between the leaves and the trees.

It was absolutely crucial to leave it,

the way it was.

Given spoken demands to my senses,

out loud in my hours of defenseless slumber.

Have slapped myself, time and time over

in repetition of desire locked into olives.

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I have left it as it was, to be celebrated,

in summer's berries, in autumn's cherries.

I flip the records, I drip the make up....

then I sit and mourn the dropping leaves.

He says, ' I used to have that album,

but it walked somewhere,' shrugging.

I kill the bottle dry and all the tunes come,

raining.

I reach, I grab and my laces come undone.

These faces I hide, in these gloves,

I call my flaws.

He sits, drinking his coffee in two gulps,

I list a few thoughts and make the day pass by.

He says, ' I used to have that album,

but it walked somewhere,'my wondering heart tries to find hisrecord of thoughts...in heat perhaps,for just a circle, just a dab of hunger.Just the way it was,when flesh was united, in my tissueand no issue are my thunders. Just me and just him, in the fate, it was. In calendars I have erased all days alone.In rest, in peace, in tender breeze

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I sideline my purple toneto live alone and vanish together.

In a Room

The sphere on the desk, still

spins on its own

using its own will, lazy orange like,

sun like, moon like, tan like.

She points at the sphere closing her eyes,

and chooses a continent...

I loose a city and

I pick a mountain,

or a river to abandon this wreck.

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My twin, she is narrow-sighted.

She sees me,

far-sighted.

Together we are no sight at all.

Blinded by the touch of her finger,

and the look of her futile eyes.

She blushes as she burns,

I freeze as I sneeze

in the cradle of lies she has laid.

The sphere shrinks on its own accord,

like a ball of wool,

in steam.

I am in a tea tin,

sniffing the world,

with my strawberry pores

awaiting a bloom in hell.

Tents of Thoughts I've been thinking,

drinking spit.

Cramping...

lurking in the warm water

of gold mines, in fields of potato leaves.

Your signs from afar,

my lines from tar

engraved in potato skin.

I used to peel them,

I no longer do,

No one likes it but you.

I used to dress in layers,

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I no longer do,

No one has known me,

through this transparent soul.

The more we broad walk,

the more we loud chalk,

the more I sing folk,

the more you choke

in my thoughts; I think, trusting lust.

The past was me in your past, was you,

in mine too?

Let me glue your palms to my leather belt

in eternity shall we share a tent,

under the sky of potato skin, starry.

Give me none, give me all,

tell me all, tell me none,

love me tall, love me fall.

I think, potatoes.

I sip, tomatoes,

blood was it?

Not a potato, was it?

What was it?

I undress,

I tie my eyes with your scarf.

I bite the pillow.

My teeth are bitten by the pillow.

I walk on the wooden floor,

and hear the slap of my feet

and touch the veins on the surface

with my toe prints.

The skin is too shallow,

the mind is too, two.

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Someone's ripped my right side.

I've been thinking potatoes.