A world out of clouds,
so fragile.
Cutting through they are,
rearranging from afar.
Blowing with their wind machine,
shame, fear, anger,
the vendor of pictures,
manifesting predictions,
always setting a star,
before it all breaks apart
and we have to start
to really see each other,
no more from personal clouds,
but in the dirt, earth
steadily prepares
to let us become more one,
than we,
Red is for roses,
and ruby.

This poem is for my grandmother, Ruby.
My great-grandmother's name was Ruby Ray. I lost her when I was 13, the eighteenth of October. I remember it like I remember how to write. I came home from school to find my family in tears. I will never forget her.
Slap me,
I want to wake up
and try again
everything I learned,
the cell saved emotion implosion.
should be our favorite drug,
but we fucked it up
What are we trying to solve,
if we always regret
when we evolve.
What are we trying to solve
in this circle of pro- and regress,
looking for access in excess?

We humanize
all life
and drive into losing ourselves
in something we are not,
mind capable to build the plot,
but our bodies rot
in trying to adapt the sun
Rope honey,
just too sweet
to break in
just a fool would do it
at the first time.
Let's do it another way,
you bound to a rope,
with honey between your legs,
not until every spot on your body is kissed,
and yeah, be sure, I have missed your lips
I'll open you with my mouth,
yours between mine,
massaging only through the pressure,
when lips close,
Expanding the sensitivity,
with patience
it reaches out for touches
all alone,
no more difference,
now that the spot behind your ears
is sending the same impulse
through you,
as the center between your hips.
Helpless, physically dissolving,
blindfolded to gift you more eyes,
you receive slow,
through my fingertips,
but in some minute
you'll feel it,
the first lick,
spreading the awaiting juice
and you never know,
when the next will follow.
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