Eyes barking as a rainforest, fresh, for its name’s chorus, “rain forest. Rain Forest!”
Eyes raveling sectors of time by confusing vectors, by bolstering spectres.
Eyes settling, unsettling, earthen. Eyes with buds, sprouting for breath, for air sweeter than oxygen – symbiotic in its life-long half-life.
Eyes tasting joy reflect many flavors: one sprinkle curiosity; one dash sparkly perfect-sad; two beams adoration; one reminder from the damned; several reflection; two cups coco; one-hundred hours bird-song; a hug and a kiss on the cheek. (love by reserve only – up to Eyes)
Eyes breaching the facade (built to fall only if a pair, fresh as these, traversed the seas). Eyes pouring over timeless wounds, patching because they can.
Eyes singing bubbly children’s melodies and old Irish folk songs. Iris’s pinpointing self-destructors and loathers, rearranging the makeup.
Eyes latching, climbing, rescuing, leaving.
Vicarious, a breeze will thrill their hearts.
Sleepless limbs will touch, “A place for the birds
and nothing more!” (now tangled, ne’er apart)
they’ll swear with vacant, O! how vacant, words!
Behind spry spheres a happy moan will dance,
Its pulse… Desire; Futility… its bones.
A lone, salacious hunger fuels its stance.
Stop, they’ll try, but no soul known wilts by stones.
How close can four nefarious clouds be,
Thunder whispering, spreading Lightning’s lies?
Livid, a gust will with their hearts be free,
screaming for what were once the clearest skies.
They’d see, if not for cupid’s shrouding whips,
the torturous temerity of lips.
The artistry with which mine heart doth beat,
Embraces thoughts so deeply locked by muse,
Is deftly placed where eyes between do meet.
Mine heart that beats, mine heart that beats for you.
Then guide me down that most suborning path;
My Poesy, dear, you are my words that ache,
and heavens sweets by which this spell is cast,
a faire perfume this drunkard of me makes.
The soul with which you see the world and me,
Is that one soul I’ve held within my breath.
And what a fool I was to think and be,
Before your grace did pluck me back from death.
So now I let your beauty conquer Time,
And in our hearts may it forever chime.
New new problem,
It’s an aesthetics thing.
Check me out,
Probably, I’ll last,
Maybe I won’t.
Route my integrity.
Route my indifference.
This is my life.
Give me a clap.
Clap on the shoulder.
New, sorta-new problem,
It’s a physics thing,
I can’t seem to sing
like I give two shits.
Up. Up again.
Had a spin.
let’s measure how
How long I
The man, the maker. The maker-man himself sleeps beside me. We are like lovers. The way he’s folded me and the covers on top of ourselves (a freshly baked bread wrap) imbues something human into my form. Sometimes his leg reaches over the pile and squeezes. He sweats profusely. He’s cold to the touch. He wakes up in his pool (homemade) confused and then sad. Heavy sigh, “fuck…” Lifts me, drapes me across the drying rack. Sets his oscillating fan to dry me and sets his little fan to dry the others. Mills about, mills about, mills about, mills about. Heavy sigh, heavier sigh, “fuuuckk…” I think desperately about being dry. I try to eat the air that the fan is throwing around. He idles in the bathroom (dry), idles in the kitchen (dryer), idles in the messy space (haha! dry!). He checks and realizes there’s no hope for the sheets, but sees I’m dry. Proud of me, he drapes the sheets next to the oscillator and we sleep on the other side of the bed. My scent is primarily the same as his, but there are a few things I’ll keep as my own forever (even through a wash, even through a sweat). A duvet chooses their aroma based on how much they want to remember. Each little hint is a memory.
I dream of being strung up in the middle of this expanse; it’s not 100% natural, but it’s not all-the-way man made, either. Many flowers that smell like him and many flowers that smell like her keep rippling as the surface of a pond would, disturbed by a stone. The disturbance comes from directly underneath me, I feel no force outward or inward, I’m stagnant as I watch. The ripple seems to last forever; the expanse goes on and on. I can’t tell where the string I’m strung is tied to and from. A loud noise far away reverses the ripple. With exponential urgency, the rings shoot back through the flowers and meet underneath me. A warmth creeps through me. Loud cracks and bright flashes above; it’s raining.
He wakes in a pool again and switches to the other side, still not dry. It’s like he’s crying from his skin.