Breathe, star child; we will leave Jupiter
this gaseous coagula, and migrate to Brighton
like poisoned pigeons who have quit carrying
the souls of those that smear dysphoria blue
across epileptic bodies. Planted in a soil of worms
this place creeps in gardens of boys and girls,
mildewy, an acidic mass seduction, a juicery
that only blends strawberry. This was our honeymoon suite.
Cry love; it’s okay. Every drop is a kick in their teeth,
an angelic shattering. Their tongues are running down their throats.
This piece, when spoken, really strikes me. Not only the imagery, but also the sound of the words make this one of my favorites of your work. Pure music of voice.
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