#2 (wet heat)
It’s as if yesterday never came around again to tell us what has happened like a spat out hunk of bad meat–You speak like an atom bomb all sleek and twisted, polished and gleaming, mirrored jaw bone grin stock piled teeth–no muse but she loved the stripes and dots all in a row, visual opiates, they drip in penned ink, dip to the black rhythm on the white beat–a sea in a cylinder rushes out of an iris, but its like a newborn with each curl birthed into a family a gestational thought from the fuck of life. As infant letters clamor into adolescent words run to meet adult sentences, on the wise add pages. But the ink is still hot, wet and lingers like a kiss.
The hands of time slow down,
To one final wave