Loo
i sweat enough to stick
right to your shirts
you write all the words i ever want to read
back when i was lost beneath stars
comment that science gave them phone
number names and no silver light
syllables spilled from the loose muscles
i claim as my voice strings
before i never gently unhinge
the skin on your chest
back when i was a cigarette soul staining
my shower floor with mildew browns
back when i drip to the store and finger
a quarter in my pocket
buy a pack
of chicklets let them dry and rubber
my togue skin until i pick
my gums and it staims the candy
and my teeth
I don't ever want to write about love again.
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2 comments:
I tell myself that every time I write. Or at least every other time.
I'm having trouble following the flow of your latest poems. If that's your intent, fair game, but just a heads up.
I've been kinda focusing on the words rather than the flow or content, trying to make strings of things that sound pretty, because I usually remember at 11:30 that I forgot to write a poem that day and I haven't though about it at all so I run to my computer and sit in notepad for like 10 mins and try and pump something out.
Mostly because the semester is winding down and I find myself more and more busy :(
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