Gatorade at the pinball machine

a moderate allergy
to most things
prompts the mouse
to stay indoors

/

the alive, the low, the excuse

I am a Sagittarius and I flirt with
everybody but U
listing in the centermost rhombus
of my woozy kaleidoscope
are the kind of creature
women write spells about
and then grow gardens 4

/

don't bring those
outlaws here,
to my Fabergé spacecraft.
just yourself, and that...!

my crown of moldy leaf

Swallow and go. Something I can do, like pace myself or *******. You ask me what I write about. I say
famous people, and discrepancies.
Simulate applying mascara. Stainless steel reflections play tennis better than I ever could. [Yesterday] I read something that intibated me,
preformed a lobotomy without a drill.
I had a dream that I forgot my work shirt at a friends house and ran through downtown bare chested to see it serve as a shroud for the most recent saginaw st ******.
At the bottom of a heartbeat you explain the grandfather paradox to me. Why wouldn't I go back and shoot the man who ***** my mother? I could have been a time capsule; could have been a light saber,
could have been a different poet who wears a lot of tank tops but calls them camisoles. Late at night my
boyfriend is more treasure chest than in the afternoon, his drunk, swollen face hooked and dark like his indian mothers.
I tell him I am unfaithful every day at three, in the afternoon when he visits the crows nest to regurgitate tequila and recyclable fibers. I wear camisoles that I call tank tops; let some neighbor feel me up over a periwinkle floral pattern when I was trying to change my life. We then shared an avocado sandwich and
peddled the fattest grams on the east side.

......
In this edge of the end
Where simplicity flows
Through the straight river
The upstream songs
As the ****** sunshine of Lost spring

There today,
Exhausted Myna drying feathers
In the wet air
Sitting on the shade of the window
Steadfast attention on the distant horizon

Slothful day in a comfort bed
With a cup of tea
A longed cigarette,
Romanticism become struck

Outside the open window
Inside out
Light clouds of August
As if the "will" cradling to and fro
Dropping the ageless poetry
Filled with the words of dance

Rain comes down on the unleash field
Essence of mystic tunes flowing
From the tearful trots of rains
Moving, Flooding
The both sides of the river
..............
@Musfiq us shaleheen