Viewing entries tagged
dreams

contained

if only the pink and white translucency wrapped around your soft hands held me instead

if i were bluish green would my feeding off dirt and sunshine concern you gently

if only my hands and feet were soft enough to play along—i can be inviting


if i were rooted grey and thick would my gravity disobey shadows locked in unnecessary skull

if only i could let my body be with you in dayspring unexpectedly

if only i could shake my mind’s nests free before seven a.m. nightmares


if i were to allow my morning mouth to loosen around sounds of insecurity and hope

would the burning scent i initiate instead be so damn enticing


dirty hair

blonde strands as venetian blind,

one eye looked out over past the covers,

placed deeply under her chin, almost to a light choke.

decidedly, she opened

 

both eyes into halo admitting slits.

the brown skinned body angled slightly

toward the window made the first moment

of waking sight accosting—

 

intriguing. a tinge of guilt for being voyeuristic

tried to bubble up, as in the way societally trained

people perform manners

with plasticine precision.

 

large and full—deceptively fantastic

bent over, tightened in

accentuated to noteworthy;

all can be plastic when eyes aren't open.

 

‘she’s right, when she has a guy fucking her from behind

they really are in luck,’ she recounts,

closing shut and scoots her own ass

a few inches,

 

her bed to herself

stretches stretches

alarm reset, most likely to be ignored

to set her into a purposeful lazy sense of panic.

 

‘i only feel this way after...’

 

snooze...baggy black dress, deodorant

in sedimentary layers, as too the mascara,

bobby pins, red pens, whatever, showers

have been optional this week.

 

twenty minutes late,

unabashedly related to humidity

and heavyish platforms;

a different dirty monday.

 

the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.

seared

a too small

raw brown pioppini mushroom

extended from the girl’s left orbital socket;

out it peeked from an old, yet inexplicable,

healed through hole in her flesh.

 

the doctors she conferred with in a state of horrified panic

told her there were more, anchored to her ethmoid bone;

the pressure and the angle of the gloved hand palpating yankingly

is a feeling rooted way down in her gut.

 

she stayed frazzled, pointing out such a small cap

to each potential savior in that dreamscape,

doling out a narrative of panic, alerting them all to her allergy,

and the concomitantly swollen scallop edges of her tongue.

 

strangely enough, when she awoke, she did not concern herself

with her eye places—for her mouth, she knew immediately, was far too small;

the seashell gifted her in a mirror located right inside her mind’s eye

transferred seamlessly to the one in her apartment bathroom.

 

she is sure now—the horror is clear,

her dreams deal in

pastel color and pain,

seared.