"thickened" poems
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the sheer immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
Thor
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night
when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes
no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo
as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening echo
through the sky
without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching
the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song
*oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true
i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score
you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle
hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like only you could*
tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet
suddenly
a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows
her tender pink ****
a charred flower
smoldering
like a
petite
grilled
calamari
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
Last night I dreamed
My life as a comic book.
An intermingled mess,
Those who have not read
Every single issue,
Cannot begin to know.
A brightly colored spectrum
Of unexpected blows.
Amidst all the villian’s
Unrelenting throws
Of powers no more
Than planting
The seeds of self doubt,
I stood armed to fall.
As each seed landed
Upon my head,
I fell to watch
Each punch line
Read only
“Bam!”
and “Kapow!”.
The plot never thickened
And never came to save me.
In a story
from the villan’s head,
Perpetually trapped
Until the hero returned
to write her portion
of my tale.
As the seeds grew
Into absolute fear,
A twisted feeling
Took hold of my gut.
Who is the antagonist
and who the protagonist?
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie
He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss
So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.
“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”
No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way
So what he did next
was truly “the ****
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.
This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland
Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”
He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”
“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”
So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Morton’s Veloute
Ought to be silky
He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.
It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon
He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits
It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”
“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick
“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”
“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”
“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”
Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”
“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar
After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you drink?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Karim disintegrates
To the madness of the Brightest Star
In the fog-thickened day.
That star,
Empowered with the strength of a
Thousand soldiers
And their passion,
And the cunning wit
Of the Great Apollo,
Stretched the fabric of linear veil to pause
The illusion of society
For a moment
Outside of dementia
Jun 15, 2022
Jun 15, 2022 at 7:36 PM UTC
Break down the mirror, and break me down
brains in my hair and teeth at my wrists,
she said fourteen caps of alprazolam gave her all she needed
she needs a new world, a new earth, a new ruler, that's what she needed-
I told you it wasn't meant to be this way, i was meant to be the prettiest
but girls with thickened veins and thickened wrists are destined for the bridge edge
My silver smiler body double told me to cut out the poison in my veins
and guess what I did it I did it I did it again
tell them your name, dysmorphia, tell them all what you think of me -
start the car and run me over, honey.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
There was a ping pop and fizzle, I heard my new born grizzle, like fine rain it started to lightly drizzle.
There was a fizzle pop and ping, the force upset my ring due to the sting.
It took on a life if it's own and the poem went out the window.
It crawled out my ****** like a possessed rabid zombie, the worm had turned and gave a wink as it continued to slink out of my hole.
I swallowed the air which had thickened as a result of the gas creeping out the pores of the beasts own ***
This thing was a body in my body but nobody knew not even me!
I fell to my knees face to face with my creation not born from my mother but sort of like my brother.
Good grief! I had eaten a KFC bargain bucket the night before, I smiled and it smiled a gob full of corn on the cob teeth.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
#
*Stone upon stone,
the walls were raised;
each block a silence,
each silence a debt
never spoken of aloud.
Within,
the child’s voice echoed,
but the mortar held fast,
sealing grief in chambers
where no light could enter.
From the outside,
the fortress looked steady,
even noble--
its towers reaching upward,
its gates well-kept..
its banners bright.
But within its walls,
rot thickened
and the beast..
undisturbed,
found shelter.
Every silence defended it.
Every smile concealed it.
Every careful word
laid another stone
against the truth.
And though the watchman cried,
the city called the fortress beautiful.
Every fortress defends
but none heals.*
Every wall that protects
is also a wall
that imprisons.
#
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
Should
never have to
face the
thickened
sticky
white and
creamy
cheesy
cliched
wrath and
terror
of her
mother's smile.
Should
never have to
flinch
inside
behind walls
made of
bricks
behind
barricades
of
stone
wrapped
in
bubble-wrap
at her
mother's
glance.
Eyes
should
never
hold
so
much
power
within
the
flash
of
discontent.
She should not
live
on a boat
always
biding time
waiting for
storms to pass
for
waves to
curl
and crack down
upon her
head
down into
the sand
that
holds her
down into
the dark
that
kisses her
goodnight
down into
the brutal
flick
the tap on the
glass
clench
of
the fingers
twitch of
the jaw
should never
have to
wait
for the
mother's roar
to
echo
through the
chamber
of her heart
until
silence
envelopes
her soul
and she
can sleep
without
fear.
Should
never
fear
her
mother's
evening breath
the
gentle and
stilling
exhale
a sigh
a brittle
and
glassed sound
that shatters
against her
tightly
pursed
lips
locked
mouth.
Should never
tell the heart
to
quiet down
and let
her run
like a
good
child
ignoring
the warning
bells
which
everyone else
seems to ignore
the words
that leave
her
stubborn
lips
in the
joke she
tells
the story
she
preaches
the hesitated
eye
widening
limerick
the expected
story
to tell
her
friends
her
mother's
wrath
tastes like
fire in
her belly
sulphur in
her throat
and
metallic
lingerings
of
biting
her tongue
to
suppress
the
screams
'what can you expect'
'my mother gets like that'
'she attacked me'
'but its okay'
'I was stubborn'
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
oh jeez...
look at how unsanitary the air can be
this area's apparently embarrassed of the error
so please excuse this breeze abuse
& breathe in deeply...heavily.
be ready for the steady supply
of thickened oxygen that's boxed me in
pressed against the rocks again
fending off that wretched wind
it bends me with its petty whims:
my lazy lungs got stretched too thin.
this air
this air...this heavy necessity
wrestling emptiness endlessly
TESTING TESTING
please inhale as you're listening
i'm invested in your empathy &
especially your circulatory circuitry
every blood cell has its worth to me
every photosynthesized sympathy
is my chlorophyll currency
& i'm spending it like burning leaves.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
The truck was full, its open back
heaped black, and there a leg, an eye;
daylight thickened on the sweating
stack and blurred the further sky.
Ten feet away I pulled the key
and let the engine jolt and choke,
the CD skipped, an old riff jarred,
a line of meaning stopped and broke
and something in that silence straightened,
left a splintered ****** mark,
I closed my eyes and felt it there,
hating in the blinded dark.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
they are old friends of mine
self doubt, self hatred, self destruction
their black gaping eyes
look at me knowingly
their bodies vibrate and pulse like anxiety
blood pours from their mouths when they speak
they whisper quietly that I'll never be good enough
I can't make myself happy, they remind me
how could I ever make anyone else happy?
they smile and show sets of teeth between red
entering uninvited, late at night
screaming obscenities and mocking me
demanding my time and energy
reminding me of all my shortcomings and failures
moments in my life that I was not enough (or too much)
and every moment coming, with premonition
I seat them into my home
though my consent has never been a requirement
they drip and ooze into the carpet
leaving thickened black sludge
and back handed compliments
identifying my worth based on shouldn'ts and didn'ts
welcome, I tell them
though I don't want them here
stay as long as you need to
I barely mouth the sounds of a silent cry
they expand and fill the room
until I can no longer breathe and they crush me
underneath their weight, and remind me I did this
to myself -- I welcomed them in, after all
I created them, I brought them here, and they are
mine
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
he was there
enough that made my insides shake
terrified with every move he made
the air thickened -
a sharp tang of something else
i hope he didn't recognize
how even his slightest move sent chills down
down my spine
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
When within my cells there rages war,
For a second breath I’d stare at the stars;
The old world thickened under my feet,
Yet across my sorrows the ends would meet;
So to renew these aspirations of ours,
Perhaps on a missile on its way to Mars.
("We are past the third wave,
past the coastline,
past the coral reef.")
No I haven’t always been there for you,
In these gardens we’ve walked around and through;
From green to red, vice-versa and so forth,
We’ve gone past Saturn many times before;
Now I’m on my way to a distant shore,
Paddling the bloodstream of my heart.
("We reach through the gate,
the threshold of no-return,
far beyond Saturn.")
Amidst curiosity and its pulsations,
Of skies infinite, a stubborn astronaut;
It’s time to decline and lose it all
Or time to rise up and answer the call;
Fractions of a split-second, a trigger;
Wings spread to the dark yonder.
("The moon now floats behind us,
It cicatrizes our scars as we sail
Far into the night.")
The journey into the unknown
Always finds a way to take you home.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 1:03 AM UTC
as a child i had a sense of before
i only a tenant in this world
i dreamt, i remembered
a place of light and freedom
of flying weightless
without a care
recurring reveries
of changeless drifting
but as i got older
my astral excursions
turned to thin air
much to hearts despair
i fell weighted to this terrestrial sphere
by thickened accumulations
of hard niches and obscurations
a delicate spark burdened
by sheaths of gnawing reason
engulfed in brutish struggle
at times
i obsessed
aching to go
back from where i came
maybe stepping in front of a speeding car
desperate to get home
where the dead
live it up
cadaverous child
a strewn tangle of little limbs
broken
on a country highway
who made a hard sacrifice
for a bigger life
where the very sensation of existence
was a floating ecstasy
like an atomized cloud puff
where the dead
are not dead at all
but enchanted children
living
with faces like suns
on the other-side of the looking glass
feet to the stars
in the arms of heaven
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
The journey began under a cloudy sky with rain hovering over the horizon. – Going back. – The painter saw the vision. Was it real? Or Was it just the shadow of the storm? The painter saw the canvass. Forms danced before his eyes. Thunder clapped in the distance. The brush moved to the rhythm of the storm that only the painter heard. A lifeline from the clouds like an umbilical cord. – Going back. – The painter focused again. The clouds thickened, blackening against the horizon in anticipation. – Going back. – The painter saw himself. He’d stopped painting. Now going back. – Going back. – The painter wondered. The painter asked himself. The painter took a brush, squeezed paint on the palette; color after color – a new variety. – Going back. – The unknown. A new beginning. – Going back. – The white of the canvass and the blackening sky. The storm. Pure color. Mixing color as the storm moved closer. A clap of thunder. The painter looked at the sky. The painter dabbed the brush onto the palette. Rain began. The brush danced to a rhythm. Thunder claps. Sweeping across the sky; sweeping across the canvass. – Going back. – The painter looked at his painting. The painter looked at the sky. The painter was happy. – Going back.
8/13/19
www.bruclevine.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
Drench these thighs
that twine on thee
shatter my world
as you tongue trippingly
Delve for sweets of
bottomed topped blush
whilst dew-drops sing
rich thickened pearly lush
Sweet, lust-given man,
is the wood of groves
stark primal musks
embraced by skin's glove
Ah so tightly shafted
this plunge oh so deep
will make you sing
(and make me weep!)
Embrace the night
with our silken sighs
as we drum the tribal
with deafening cries
Breathing the source -
those hourglass sands
guiding each another
midst our midnight-sun lands...
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
The hour of midnight of tomorrow dark
A vision like a stark
Fog thickened like solid mug
A Greyhound Bus Terminal ghostly in spiritual nature
Yet adding to the mystery appeared a Greyhound Bus
Driver and passengers were in nothing more than past spirits
They had often travelled this road many times
Flesh wasn’t there mark
It was a Greyhound Bus that just decided to park
The characteristics of the Greyhound Bus was the blinking lights
It became a circumstance contributing fright
But it will be a thriller starting tonight
The Stretched out Greyhound dog trademark with Evil on its mind
Car and Truck Drivers witnessed the disturbed revengeful Greyhound Bus on the highway
It was the look being the last highway to hell
The Blood was flesh thrown off the highway by the Greyhound bus
Most of the flesh had previously died
The spirits were on a rampage at Greyhound
Bus Dispatchers were announcing agendas and not schedules
The roll call being an assignment to destroy
There was no more happy in joy
The night was had a evil twist being fierce
The Greyhound Bus stretched had Dracula teeth and eyes being Red
A thirst to fulfill but with acceleration at will
There’s no time to be still
There was definitely evil powers having everyone being hypnotized
But it was the obsession of the Greyhound Bus under control
The number of the Greyhound Bus 1811
Years ago something on that one
The bus got into a terrible accident
Everyone died but Souls would return with a rage against the living flesh
Midnight will soon strike
Souls who died on that Greyhound bus 1811 will arise and walk the streets in rage
Midnight has struck and it’s too late
It was written on that very date
A hound bus will be bound and there will be no one sound
The town of Jeffersonville know all too well about the Greyhound bus curse
No time for any written verse
Souls have risen
Greyhound bus spiritual revenge having no wait
Again, it was anticipated
A night that would come
Don’t travel on Greyhound bus 1811 restored
There might be an evil plan having an accord.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,
peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, homo-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.
We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic
languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting
with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.
They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:
bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
Silver lined eyes
Roaming in my mind
your silky sheet on ruby rainbow,
shall occupy my sky
your slightly thickened and dyed hair,
on nape waves your eternal joy of beauty
All the girls were so impulsive for you
I'm the idle one to adore your slow whispers
you told you're going to sleeping
without listening my high notes
singed for you all alone in this dark.
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 9:14 AM UTC
I think I killed somebody
But you can’t tell anybody
It was just one simple body
A soul of a nobody
I had hands that ached to be claws
And feet that dreamed to be saws
I had eyes that sharpened into arrows
And lips that sharpened into blades
I had a tongue that was very splintered
And hair of thickened rope
It was the brain that leaked its poison
It was the ******* from which one drank
It was the heart that made one numb
But it was the thighs that slit its neck
I didn’t mean to do it
Yet I just heard a secret
It pounded at the bones in me
My skin couldn’t keep it
I never knew before then
What was thicker than blood
I think I killed somebody
But you can’t tell anybody
It was just one simple body
A soul of a nobody
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 6:06 AM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC