Wide awake rushes up my vocal cords
Nothing is so bashful nor sweet to tongues
Make my very eyelids whisper “Oh Lord”
And fall on their kneecaps burn out their lungs.
A Morning breath armchair sipping coffee breath
Red lips punch the mug right in the kisser
Of all the Mahogany nothing’s left
Hemingway spoken floats like a whisker.
I slam the window in Bossanova,
And the armchair appears- smiles a bullseye,
I printed your face without ink toner,
Into an old crossword unmemorized.
Slept like cocoons that anxiety’d worn,
Stomach full of butterflies- your front porch.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
Wide awake rushes up my vocal cords
Nothing is so bashful nor sweet to tongues
Make my very eyelids whisper “Oh Lord”
And fall on their kneecaps burn out their lungs.
A Morning breath armchair sipping coffee breath
Red lips punch the mug right in the kisser
Of all the Mahogany nothing’s left
Hemingway spoken floats like a whisker.
I slam the window in Bossanova,
And the armchair appears- smiles a bullseye,
I printed your face without ink toner,
Into an old crossword unmemorized.
Slept like cocoons that anxiety’d worn,
Stomach full of butterflies- your front porch.
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