if you could find me

in beautiful compounds

or perfect contradictions

i guess i’d be lit then.

to feel searched by touching

half my face blushed in

crepuscular muskin,

to chime in while timed in

diaphanous spectra spiraling

towards a somnolent siren,

sneaking me

through this scarecrow frequency

pulling glow

from a vitreous hole

until we blow

like cocaine hydrants

through a quantum pilot

flying high in tandem

on lambrusco lanterns…

yawning while spawning

waking mauve mornings,

where sheets of perfume sail

shale plum spritzes

through a sylph’s prisms…


i spilled the wine on me.

i mean…

you should get a fine

for defining me ..

how do you want me?

‘prosey chomsky’?

‘metrical chinsky’?

‘feelings for ransom’?

i’m sure it all fits me

‘covertly constricting’?

‘converting to empty’?

i mean…

when all the light hits me

i just want to be finished.

until then i’ll be sweetish

i guess they need it.

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