We cannot call it my "mind" today.
It's better defined as
a malfunctioning mess
of kaleidoscopic hiccups—
untimed bursts of glitter,
and mismatched shapes.
Curves clash with angles,
overlap, transform, repeat,
until the nonsense makes sense;
until the noise becomes
a soothing hum.
Without warning,
the improper becomes
the most mouthwatering idea
we've had the pleasure to rouse.
Composed of little
ten-second films of us,
bare-skinned in low light,
shifting in tempting tessellations
that bump and spiral
in heightening rhythms
just behind my eyes.
Such thoughts
were never meant
for a box—
rather a shape
more taunted and tantric.
These.
My wax-dipped daydreams
that do not beg
a single sip of permission.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
We cannot call it my "mind" today.
It's better defined as
a malfunctioning mess
of kaleidoscopic hiccups—
untimed bursts of glitter,
and mismatched shapes.
Curves clash with angles,
overlap, transform, repeat,
until the nonsense makes sense;
until the noise becomes
a soothing hum.
Without warning,
the improper becomes
the most mouthwatering idea
we've had the pleasure to rouse.
Composed of little
ten-second films of us,
bare-skinned in low light,
shifting in tempting tessellations
that bump and spiral
in heightening rhythms
just behind my eyes.
Such thoughts
were never meant
for a box—
rather a shape
more taunted and tantric.
These.
My wax-dipped daydreams
that do not beg
a single sip of permission.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
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