Saturday, April 11, 2015

morning nymphs

Burnt the color of plaid skies
The smoke rises softly near the tumbledryer
i have been careful to wash my socks separately
To sift throught the day with an endelss paitence
To darkness

You sit crosslegged on the edge of a dream
Cracked betweeen what you want and where you can be
between the Ariel packs and the figures of speech
Sweetened by a woman's belly
Shaking with inhilations
To think men hold onto day to day demanor
The way they do cigarettes,
Handy and so thin

There are always women at the end of your dream
Tumbling, creaking with Warmth
There are no Sultans in the laundry room
And women do not grow in pomegranate
But there's always food, for the thoughts
Emitting from the burning skies
And the carrying of my colored socks,
Too bright for the evening, you are helpful

You were altered with my thirst to realms, emitting purple hues
The room spins whilst still standing
And the hash takes the men, you- drowsy
To the nearest creek, to bathe, to hold, to catch
Naked nymphs

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