"curvatures" poems
Perhaps your body is composed of thousands of stars.
Limitless constellations make up your fingertips
your eyelashes
and the curvatures in your ears.
Galaxies are interwoven under your skin and how you glow.
You glow like the moon in the sky when it is at its brightest.
When nothing compares to the sight of the moon and the tiny specks in the sky are just insignificant floating circles.
Your hair flows like the Nile River.
Boundless, pristine water overflowing at my fingertips.
You are more than the ocean; you are all the bodies of water in the earth combined.
You are the last drop of coffee in my old, vintage, mauve red mug.
The last caffeine induced sip that flows through my oesophagus with a relinquishing taste of sweetness.
You are the sweet nectar that hummingbirds look for in flowers and when they can't find flowers with a taste that will satisfy them, they settle on trees.
You are the trees that produce oxygen, and the branches of the trees that tower over me like a netted blanket.
You are the cotton blanket keeping me warm on windy or rainy days because it doesn't snow in the Philippines.
But if you were snow, I would gather you in a plastic container and keep you in my ice compartment so you wouldn't melt.
You make me feel like I'm melting.
Like every possible emotion i possess flows out of me like vapor.
And you are the smoke that forms after you've blown the flame of a candle; you gently float in the air surrounding the space where the flame used to be.
You are the compacted tissues in my chest; you fill the void I once had.
You comprise my veins, my arteries and vesicles; you are a vessel of euphoric elation.
You are my utopia.
You are.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Though the faraway look combs through the glances, the heads lowering and longing
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
The icicle street of perturbing yellow parallel lines and molasses traffic that seems to rake the people across pavement into curvatures of avoidance keep me running.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
I repeat it, a gesturing phrase, recurring, as I watch the transcendent glow, a denouement to a one-sentence story.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Could have: (What will save the moment in untickable preservation?)
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
when the dragonflies escape
the sensation of being swept up
in kite sailing within and without
riveting curvatures
of wind breaks
there's nothing like catching
the breeze so proposing this
please sweet universe,
I ask of thee
let the dragonflies free.
when the dragonflies escape
you will embrace it
in every fiber of your being
with even
electricity flowing
up to the fingertips
you cannot shake this feeling
like the beating of fragile wings
poise and power
strokes the air so carefully calculated
I hope the both of us make it
to a safer existence where there is
virtue and inner peace then
why can't you
just release them
when we again understood
after such a long time
that we were already
free
already free to
begin with.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary
the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable
cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer
make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating
no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted
when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds
in the season of change
write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity
heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.
"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.
"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.
"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
Sensual Spaces
the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...
half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...
be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...
yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
[^]
<|>
+-+
%
t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Where Purity is the Covering of All Flesh
and no private part of the human body
may be shown
and thus where the lack of Purity is Dishonesty
and therefore are Dishonest Paintings
wherein are depicted female ******* and such
buttocks and navel
and where genitalia female or male
asleep or awake
and such are shown
and crotches and such flesh and curvatures
may arouse
such being Dishonest Paintings
the Eminent Guardians of Purity
announce multiple positions vacant
of Reviewer of Dishonest Paintings
and so to cover up with black paint any signs of *******
and so of any other part of images in such paintings
as buttocks cover up with black paint
and so on each Dishonest part of human anatomy
to be covered with black paint
and in this task one always to use a firm, long brush -
the longer and firmer the better for the Soul -
so that
one may not come too close to such obscenities
as coming close one may be aroused to ***** desires
in male
(Females need not apply for said position
for such lascivious creatures are always
in a state of wet desires)
and so in covering with black paint
the Sanctity and the Will of Heaven prevails
and human souls transported to Divine Ecstasy
at the sight of paintings with black holes
corrected by expert Reviewer of Dishonest Paintings
and such positions to be filled
by honest men firm in their resolve
and long in stamina and determination
they should arrange their own transport
for various locations in the Holy Empire
for indeed Various Positions are available
and while the renumeration is handsome
derived from confiscation of properties and means
of the Perpetrators
of those Works of Perfidy and Damnation
those Artists who produce and who engender
Dishonest Paintings and such Works
and far more too included in Renumeration
is the Seat of Purity in Heaven -
O the pay shall be Eternal Heaven
Apply directly and in person
at the South Wall of the Grand House of Divinity -
put your scrolls in the holes
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 4:20 AM UTC
We burn together, but with separate hues
Our flames flick and dance around the wick
Tips touch and mingle
And on occasion consume,
This wax that binds me,
That keeps me here, away from you.
The tears of knowledge weep thick and slow
From a time when what once thought was true,
Now is not.
Yet, your light enthralls me
It keeps me near.
A dragonfly glimmer, a shimmering morning dew.
Here we learn together, fervent flame ensue
Distant and close, not wicks but curtains
That can't be tamed;
Two bonfires in the night, birthing strifeful embers
Striking without cause or claim
Inflame all that behold us for a love unchained.
Your shared endeavors are not mine to keep
For elsewhere two little torches,
Kindred lanterns in which you keep a light
So bright, yet from me so far and dim
That to behold them myself would be a match
At the base of a tree.
But still for you that fire burns,
With it billows of smoke carve curvatures
Over mountains, which to me unseen,
Smoldering luster, an unwelcome glean.
Then the time comes, and with the soft spoken smoke
you whisper of a desired hue,
which you wish to have bound wick and wax
A dream within which she is there
and I
Outside of you.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.
An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.
Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.
Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.
Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.
The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.
Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…
Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.
Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…
A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.
Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.
A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Leaving those trusting eyes—
was indeed the cruelest act I have
ever partaken in.
Tagging along after numerous hugs,
These kids claimed that white bus—titling it as
mortal enemy. Now this nonliving
object was my ultimately my enemy.
Silently they wept, I wrap
my arms around her, I gave
everything I had to offer.
Hope
Washing over the diluted curvatures of
my face, my mind began to spin out of control.
Then his youthful face hit the floor like a bag
of unwanted rocks—Pain severed my core.
Every motherly instinct I possessed now
Stood,
perched in
tip-toed fashion.
Stunning those hopeful faces,
I turned my back—
like everyone else who had come
before me.
Sliding into the bus seat one final time,
my numbness took over—aching
taking refuge on a limb.
Had I held them back from their victory?
Or had I helped them pursue it?
Transforming, I will never be
the same. Will I go back for those
kids?
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
it begins
with silky smooth fabric
like tiny cushions on her
delicate skin
she spins
her back arched ever so slightly
the curvatures of her feet
cuts through the empty air
she is swift
she is fast
she is doing what she
knows best
her fragile stability
is as light as a spider
she dances through the darkness
leading light in her path
the inaudible patter
as her feet
gracefully hit the floor
weave a tapestry
of a love unknown.
the sun
rises as
it is done
she does not remain
she is gone
her blood is a
song
sang just before the dawn.
(b.d.s.)
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
Listen to that big band swing,
Jippin dat doo dattin, with Bing.
Twirl and dancing that vinyl black.
Feelin' the beat through the thumpin' bass crack.
Movin' digits like dancin. Dames.
Tease out that trumpet's pinching twang.
Her dress twirls through the floor,
She.
Spiraling blackhole, spiraling through time net curvatures wormhole.
My ears crash, jazzy spats, of floppin' bop, on the tendrils of brain,
The ooze in my ears feels drunk from the tune,
Music peers to the table cloths wine stain.
She's the toilet water of my music.
Oh that swing.
Oh!
THAT SWING.
I cant help but love that swing like, child's kiss.
Bringing me soft love in lime blues, cross jazz legs,
Spazzing with cigarette drags, dragging my nails through your chest,
Oh that swing, smears me through your dress.
Love child, those legs,
Beauty those pearly notes,
Prickling whites,
Shark teeth scratching the record,
Or just dust.
Slides________________________
Slides the tip of the stylus through divots,
In the pavement street of record.
Missive.
Don't turn that table too slow now.
That swing can't stop.
Oh that big band swing.
Beat that rhythm,
Boys...take it from the top.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
The fifth poem I put on HP; few* read it so I resubmit as Lost In Space III.
I tinkered with it slightly... O yeah, based on a true story....
Multi-tasking your body
Kissing your eyes,
Sense the tipsiness of your
Trembling lashes,
Drinking a poem from
My poetry birthing place.
Between kisses and rapido exhales,
Stutter and lisp
Uttered word-wisps,
Shockingly bad love poem stories.
Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.
All the while my left finger
Catalogues, indexes.
It, mesmerized, it memorizes,
The curvatures of thy face
To be stored in the
Never-forget, always-place.
My tongue restless to participate
Goes wherever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own,
And enjoys getting into
What it calls, the best kind of trouble.
My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory....
May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Equations
in the sand
Laid out
and toweling off
Curvatures to
algebraic form
They define her lines
shape her axis
My island of
expectation
Amid summer's long
subterfuge
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 11:48 AM UTC
Round of twin *******
Circle thighs, hips, moon bottoms,
The round of my palms.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Once upon a time
in the Great Hall
of the Metropolitan Museum,
my woman wan~pale,
doozy, woozy, about to grace
the floor marble, with an
undesirably inelegant fall.
Steadied her, a quick diagnose,
Low Blood Sugar + Dehydration,
her condition I pronounced.
The antidote in my possession!
From my pocket left,
withdrew my emergency tangerine.
She looked, quizzically, upon me,
even a bit weirdly,
marveling and marvelous,
as I fed her bite-sized orange curvatures.
*Who walks around with a
tangerine in their coat pocket?*
I replied, doesn't everyone?
besides, that juicy tangerine looked
mighty good, so I took from
pocket right, another one,
laughingly, which we shared.
Henceforth she has called me,
a partial mocking homage to a former actor,
who should have stayed that way,
the one who was thinking you can always start over,
The Anticipator.
If you ask me what is the secret
to keeping love alive, my answer permanent.
Get thee a coat of many pockets,
like the one Joseph had,
fill them up with with the things
that will shelter her from the storm...^
No longer the season of the tangerine,
In my pocket in the fall,
a Fuji apple and a box of
raisin~poems
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
*Round of twin *******
Circle thighs, hips, moon bottoms
The round of my palms*
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
you've left a footprint
in my mind.
/
you've left behind
the traces of the past
the memories
and a concave
wave
/
leaving curvatures
creating
those permanent
steps
across the
expanse of
my brain
/
upon the
landscaped
planes
valleyed
peaks
/
and the blood
vessel'd tributaries
/
I felt you flowing
in my veins-
within me
/
without me
inside upstream
outside downstream.
/
the currents quiet. the tides subside.
/
you've left a footprint,
in my mind.
/
I think you'd be
impressed
with the old
pieces
Ive kept
/
it’s a residual
effect. this left
consistent motion.
similar to erosion
/
changing, rearranging-
kind of like continental
drift.
but sometimes
there wasn’t any motion
just slow motion
/
but some emotions
picked up on all
four seasons
/
breathing an air of cold winter.
once sinister,
brought pure laughter.
the sun luminescent mirroring my skin
came spring and summer
/
I spread
em’ wings
-to be the bird
I’d always wanted to be
/
peaceful.
unleashed.
free.
/
riding the air.
it's the best
feeling-
being alive
to be redefined, unconfined.
/
you've left a footprint
in my mind
/
I was too blind and
I’ll never
forget this
/
I just
felt the need
to disappear with
no dusted prints behind
though...
/
and so I crept out
the back
door slow.
/
because it didn't
feel like those
“traditional” goodbyes.
/
wasn't chiseled in stone.
engraved in bone.
/
no handshake
no promise
we didn’t see-
eye to eye.
/
kind of equally analogous
to the sun rising
into the earth
/
chaos turned
to clarity.
-I left.
but I strived with
/
cold sweat,
with every stride
with every step
/
and the regret I carry
is something
I will never forget.
/
I was climbin’
to the top of
Mt. Everest.
/
except without you,
I fell off the grid.
it was all
plate tectonics
/
my world is
spinning off its axis.
and I haven't been
the same
since.
/
but it gives me a
hopeful glimpse-
when I'm lookin up
at those stars
/
feels like bright day
in the middle of
night.
/
I’d like to
think you’re
lookin’ at the
same stars
/
wherever you
might be.
I hope you’re looking at
that same sky.
/
you've left
behind a
footprint
forever
in my mind.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
you made quite an impression on me
old man. Something about the dichotomy
of your mangled mechanical motion
and the cobble stone streets of Portland
-and every other city constructed with a bipedal complex-
made about as much sense to me as a lilac shooting
upwards through the parched desert earth. From the other
side of the street I saw your ***** calloused
hands grasping the wheels of your entrapment.
Hands for horses crooked legs for reigns,
your mind harbors the immutable knowledge that your
wheeled prison can't be escaped. But then, for a moment, it happens:
With a desire for movement unparalleled by even the most
diligent of wayfarers you break free from
the confines of immobility.
you are a great steamboat disembarking
from a familiar port, traversing the
***** rivers of black tar and cement,
fires stoked by the thoughts of what was and is no more,
drifting along to the tempo of a softly beating heart and
the feel of a woman's touch....
it pounds and you listen
and you and her are wrapped
tightly under sheets of linen again,
legs intertwined, arms embracing
the undulating curvatures
of a supple young body
and she says she loves you
and you say its requited
and she says we can make it
and you begin to run your
clean youthful fingers through her hair
and then boom,
your ship runs aground
and you once again become enslaved
to your affliction. Upon the curb
you sit old man, stagnant,
face in your ***** hands
thinking of where
you've been
and where you will never go.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Bomb shell
She is hard to quell,
Lost in her eyes
You will find dark skies,
Raining on you
Answers few,
Who would have known
Your heart would have flown
So high so far
Bottle her in a jar,
Like the sweetest of jellies
Peanut butter on breaded bellies,
Find no harm
In her sultry charm;
Glossy lips
Hypnotizing hips,
**** temptation
Make us all rise as a nation,
Amazing overtures
Praise her curvatures,
Such is this flora in a faraway Terra;
For her you'd cross any Sahara....
© okpoet
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Black tidal waves encompassed by the wall of lipstick,
releasing steam becoming inhaled from the mouth that sleeps.
Black curvatures sped along the ghostly lines to ease the tick,
relapsing legs touching to the web that weeps.
No winged-beast, no unpredictable mind,
to lullaby the creator of both the invisible and the translucent.
Slowly suffocated to the echo of the riled up rhyme,
slowly spitting out the guts of red paint.
Freedom flown, fists formed,
molding white pieces into scattered clouds.
Head hung, heart hummed,
wailing teary notes into ripped wedding gowns.
Cycle of the eaten, and the uneaten,
all must gallantly fall; however births ripples.
Sanctions of the needed, and the unneeded,
all must dauntingly call; however pictures simple.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
is this craft that chose you, not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute, curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the
ordinary?
***the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite, the reused, discard the instant recognition,
unusable***
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Round of twin *******
Circle thighs, hips, moon bottoms,
The round of my palms.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
as darkness cradles
its palpability encompasses
dreams
a moments sway...
inebriates as images of him
passes through salient memories
of Him and I
those moments spun like silk...
his visage visible; an augury to me
dreams allusion dallies like
gossamer in gentle breezes
teasing, taunting in its promise
of fulfillment
dreams alight...
his ambling soft, blush arises as
I bow into maleness, where
urgency slides, tasting silken
curvatures; that stare into hazel
eyes beckon lips
memories caress...
rise and fall of gasped breaths
unleashed wilder dreams
beneath thirst of his eyes,
swallowed by seduction
those naked memories...
flush, deep within our hunger;
a rush fed into sweet pulses,
bodies rise; cognizance slips
back, wetness effusive
drenched...
entwined, legs, hips fingertip
forages; his breath mine mingle
and whispered moans
abandoned...
those dreams linger still
in darkness of midnight
calling his name in want
a remembered taste...
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Italian love songs
Canzoni d'amore italiane
fires the need, touch touch caress.
alla necessità, tocco tocco carezza
my hand engulfs her little finger,
la mia mano avvolge il suo mignolo
sliding down from her knuckle,
scivolando giù dalla sua nocca,
to the glassine hard smooth of
alla glassina dura liscia di
a petite fingernail, contradicting,
un'unghia minuta, contraddittoria,
confirming the sensational opposition
confermando l'opposizione sensazionale
the forefinger performs a solo,
l'indice esegue un assolo,
exciting the ear’s topography,
eccitante la topografia dell'orecchio,
the sexuality of hill, vale, spaces,
la sessualità di collina, valle, spazi,
curvatures extending an invitation,
curvature che estendono un invito,
the neck, plane of the neck, take
prendere il collo, piano del collo
I’m no longer of surety possessing,
*Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,*
is it my finger or my tongue, is it
è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero?
that my finger became my tongue,
che il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu,
all senses at attention, blurred,
tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato,
the love song enactment, touch
recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco
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the confusion of love is its clarity, the master and the slave
becoming one
la confusione dell'amore è la sua chiarezza, il padrone e lo schiavo diventano uno
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 8:43 AM UTC