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"cng" poems
this bitter green dawn does not move the city that in crisp antiquity spreads her thighs, her palms her fingertips licked with drought and the soft sweet stink of the night rubbery skin flavourless as a leaf; her armpits and knees gape with rasping mouths and the basins of the neck rugged stretch striped and on up the sloping stumbling face gaunt as concrete where carts and rickshaws startle and snort succulent bulbs part mechanical and jagged and through the gutter sallow eyes watch cement tunnels tumble and twist the taste of thick leather mossy on their walls there are feet too thousand toes with chipped windows, stooping they swell, and there are dry highways of the calves where nothing lingers. it is morn now the birds gargle and a thin yellow kite shivers like a hanged thing on the spidery scaffold of an electric tower. her salty streetlights stare like iron in the urinary winds that shoo crusty litter in between ******* and crevices of eyes, sills of the hips the cracks of the elbows butter sun scatters and coats the houses viscid flies come torment the quiet awake her men barge out hasty and mad and vehicles shake a thousand breaths exit: their CNG sweetness caking in the nails and jamming the doors; pungent liquids churn and ignite in taut-limbed engines; now gears tick and click sweating rancid and thick leaking on roads and roiling canals gruff huffs and coughs now the sky is grey and cool a cadaver now loud ears unfurl bare as banners and shrill winds pound hot-metal on skin — the bark-wood body turns and reveals the moors of a stoney back where steel rods bend at silly angles and where they protrude their same old tang of DC and the same old tingling of it now a sigh escapes the latex lips and shutters shudder over spiced eyes now all is red like hot tea on tongue and the tongue tinkles with the sounds of the heart that ripe an onion pleads to be pulled out out out and peeled layer by layer until it is none and now, the familiar viscosity soothes it again and it swoons limp a fat still-born in the womb
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Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 11:18 AM UTC
Body of a city
this bitter green dawn does not move the city that in crisp antiquity spreads her thighs, her palms her fingertips licked with drought and the soft sweet stink of the night rubbery skin flavourless as a leaf; her armpits and knees gape with rasping mouths and the basins of the neck rugged stretch striped and on up the sloping stumbling face gaunt as concrete where carts and rickshaws startle and snort succulent bulbs part mechanical and jagged and through the gutter sallow eyes watch cement tunnels tumble and twist the taste of thick leather mossy on their walls there are feet too thousand toes with chipped windows, stooping they swell, and there are dry highways of the calves where nothing lingers. it is morn now the birds gargle and a thin yellow kite shivers like a hanged thing on the spidery scaffold of an electric tower. her salty streetlights stare like iron in the urinary winds that shoo crusty litter in between ******* and crevices of eyes, sills of the hips the cracks of the elbows butter sun scatters and coats the houses viscid flies come torment the quiet awake her men barge out hasty and mad and vehicles shake a thousand breaths exit: their CNG sweetness caking in the nails and jamming the doors; pungent liquids churn and ignite in taut-limbed engines; now gears tick and click sweating rancid and thick leaking on roads and roiling canals gruff huffs and coughs now the sky is grey and cool a cadaver now loud ears unfurl bare as banners and shrill winds pound hot-metal on skin — the bark-wood body turns and reveals the moors of a stoney back where steel rods bend at silly angles and where they protrude their same old tang of DC and the same old tingling of it now a sigh escapes the latex lips and shutters shudder over spiced eyes now all is red like hot tea on tongue and the tongue tinkles with the sounds of the heart that ripe an onion pleads to be pulled out out out and peeled layer by layer until it is none and now, the familiar viscosity soothes it again and it swoons limp a fat still-born in the womb
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