Rolling out of a soul, I squish my teeth against the wall. Fidelity is a good example of how the internet has changed tomorrow. Loyal to my childhood, I spark some sort of emotional issue. My life tethered to a new world.
Tag: poem
Suggested
Seashore of officials. Miami has been a bad choice. Winter writers flutter like they were born to make their children feel so strange. The law has changed since I was a reptilian woman. I have laid my eggs in front of my hourglass. Children – they slide into chambers, sew themselves suits. Why comb a bald beach of boiling beer?
Eating Men
My sheath is made of leather.
I am a woman.
I am a knife.
Tonight I will dine
on an industrial
Dynasty,
eating in the workspace
of men –
Eating men.
Iron rising from my pulse
To the air
I see my doppelganger –
The pregnant cat
Luring the mouse.
This is part of my project to write poems that pair with colors and textures, or the other way around.
Journey to 4
When the blood covered
the stones,
3 was created
It was then
That the staple guns
Came out
1 was a motion – imperceptible
2 was an equation –
the question and the answer.
3 looked like a rain puddle.
3 was made of metal.
With a blowtorch,
The creation of 4 as a
fine piece of art
The whole is less than
The sum of its parts
Permanent subtraction,
Each a negative
Sucking from her own math
Under the bitter heat
This metal does not
Waver.
I Was Born For Now
I am the cloak of winter
shed too soon in the meadow
where naked spring is
penetrated by thawing snow.
Unneeded,
I whip around in the wind.
When your home is a time,
leaving is a dangerous,
ferocious thing.
Motives
My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
Dirty Poem with Christmas
Found poetry on my phone.
Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.
Technology Poem
Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.
There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.
More Predictive Poetry
Flow of information from the interface is separated from the family room for awhile in the morning. The Male was also Marie Antoinette and her husband abuses her husband. The year is still coated in a long distance.
Sex
Like a strobe light,
my nipple flash from my
bra cups,
overflow of myself and my softness.
He seizes me with his smart hands.
He knows what to do.
He will tease my peaks
and stroke my heart in
small, deft movements.
This is the game we play—
him catching me over and
over again like a ball.
I throw myself into clothes,
then shed them like unwanted baggage.
It is dark at the fringes
of my lomographic mind,
and in the center is my man,
plunging into me like a
lamp into an outlet,
completing my loop.
My hips squeezed in the
straps of lingerie,
I wait breathlessly for that
meaningful motion of his
hands tugging my panties
down just a little,
giving me permission to
unwrap myself
in his mute language.
My fire begins at my neck.
The beginning of pleasure
presides over the creased
space between shoulder blade
and ear.
That is where he starts—
at the beginning—
wise to my whimsical womanhood.
Miniature Moon 