(One morning)
I turned a see-through, plastic bag that you gave me inside out so that I could lick the cream cheese out of it. Showing off to my friends. (Apples, pears and rolling with the punches. Smell of you baby, my senses, my senses be praised. Smell of you baby, my senses, my senses be praised. It’s in the scalp. It’s in the fur on your cheeks. Your vines smell like the underside of the rarely changed pillow case, But, what pillow? I’d like to see you in the morning. Would that make me feel easier to feel feral with vulnerability. Maybe now it’s game on anyway. In the morning, You smell like the places where rabbits sleep.-Smell of you baby, my senses, my senses be praised - It’s in the scalp and i’d like to see you in the morning and then i can feel easier Don’t let it bring you down though! It’s only apples and pears and, and the wooden kill *what do you need me to say when we’re making love* (and why is the surface of the water blurry with dead bugs??) Oysters to go down soothingly, slowly. Instant super noodles were slurped hastily And- sitting on top of it all, a bright, artificial, tropical sea. We would always roll with the punches and eat what was laid slammed in front of us Sometimes, as well, it could get pretty late at night, The younger ones might even end up with their faces in their prawn curry The sliced mango left to curl in on itself regretfully Regretfully, It never went to plan and if it did it might have gone too smoothly. Every celebration seemed to decay. Becoming grotesque and unrecognisable. He was too scared of happiness? The vastly changing presentations of love on our plates; LOTS OF LOVE and dilapidated love (at least, i tried to see it as love) We would float around in these contents, seeking consistency Our very presence became ruinous… (what do you need me to say when we’re making love) ? would that make you feel easier
(before but still kind of now as well)
Lots of mushrooms and spitting in someone else’s mouth and misspelling saliva as salvia. Listening to The Doves and the cedar room. Bouncing up and down to their natural rhythm. Legs crossed tightly around and i tell myself to stop thinking so much and to only feel. (i tried to sleep alone but i couldn’t do it) saliva turns to salvia when it’s yours...and i try to sleep alone, but i couldn’t do it maybe it’s because i need to work out your smell and soak myself in it afterwards. My breath has become out of sync with yours -sorry. She laughs and the acid curdles in my stomach.
A hurricane of human whiff. Baby can i dress you, i mean, help you pick out your clothes before we go out? He sings and pleads at the imagined audience. It’s just that i want to feel the shine of smooth skins slide underneath sweaty palms like that (do you like that baby) whispers around us. A speck of saliva carries forward. The transition from grainy to musty, to waxy, squeaky clarity. The kind of clean that means i can put your hair in my mouth and suck the water out of it. Oh! My senses be praised indeed! I accidentally swallow a curl but it doesn’t scratch or anything -it slithers down and awakens something, like swallowing a beam of light. I don’t think when Bobby Baker washed those carrots that it felt as good as this - how would i know - carrots are not quite tomatoes, AND NOT QUITE YOU THOUGH, ARE THEY?
The sun smiles in mocking jest and I think what kind of sweet thing is this. (but if reading between the lines is my forte, why do I try, folding myself onto the lines, i end up trapping us) getting stuck down the cracks and dreaming and screaming and this town has got me like a ghost town.
And squeezing, squeezing, squeezing all the white stuff out out out
Til it turns to red stuff, see-through, now brown, and then it starts to show on the face.
In the thighs. When your feet start to get fucked. If it’s not from walking, then what is?