Letter 209
take a munch out of a sculpture of a man;.
watch his moans murmur across the surface of the moon,
and the lilacs of his eyes turn to ginger root and bronze,
an the pales of the glitter throne of his stomach
turn Babylon greys and drizzle across a depressed dialectic of keratin..
watch them gaze into a fit of angst and italics of now and then.-
dotted about across the veins of mood and thick paint that pulse
over turmeric thoughts and paprika dreams,
extracting ore from the awe of their feline and saline selves..
their body is a perfect smashed glass strained across a wicker basket,
covered in olive oils of Catalonia and vinegar of the higher kind.
minglings of old currencies r thrown in to a steel drum and played till morning;
hit u like a last spasm of panic that has floated downstream and eroded
into a complex of versions and excursions tapping on the windows like hail.;
as u lie in the cotton, the suave and the ribbon that ties u to his ivory tower-
withstands, withholds, withdraws u from tensions of draught and irrigates ur lucozade slowfade,
with isotonics and isolation, a satin water drained from the working week.
u bathe in the sundew. their pandoras box of prayer that drifts around ur paradigm;
u trickle kisses down their spine
.alphabetti spaghetti words littered all over the walls,
cloistered in blood irons and essential minerals.
a room filled with small ornate tubes of salts, spices, eating things
all reflecting and refracting stained glass lights.
ur thinking about a bluebird u saw earlier;
ur rested
it’s quiet.
