who plays god in your head
what secret screams in your sleep
what is your real name
In the wonderful mess of her mind albino plants are nests for hugtandalfers and she uses astrolabes as haute teacups.
I’m a manuscript buried in the depths of Bibliothèque Al-Imam Essayouti waiting for the hands that will come out of the sand dunes to set me on fire as haram; Ahmed Baba al-Massufi wrote me in the year 1582 and the poetry contained in me is as black as his beard; skin; robes; eye; ferrous sulphate vegetable ink.
15,000 of us are marching against Alexandria under ‘Amr ibn al-‘As; my bow, brave; Byzantine blood paints the soil; we are all painters; divine; paint with death. History our very own; painful, one song.
I am me; just me; watching you stepping out of bed; your foot, flattening and plumping imperceptibly as it comes in contact with the floor; 1 a.m.; I am; the floor; the image of your foot changing; houses my imagination till Life; eclipsed; is parted with me.
In ProgressQuest, my Enchanted Motorcycle; Class: Bastard Lunatic; Lvl: 36; is delivering this teratoma; executing 2 massive Jubilexes; selling a Geryon cornucopia; negotiating the price for +1 Fine Cambric Plasma Greaves.
Iamatically; in any electric current there’s fish swimming arbitrarily through historical context; I’m doused in a waterfall of expletives from; a knife fight in every man; a distillery in every woman. Who’s skyless.
I think it would take a million years; to follow my scent; breathe; rhyme; touch is such; indelible; and you, a stubborn victim that asks to be murdered; thunder/tender; every single narrative.
your father is not your god
you never sleep, no one does
I’m no writer, no poet under my skin
when I unlock the k’s flow thousands kites kilos of paper that weighs nothing in the end like your body that I lift up from the dead every single day like a mother misplaced like 6am am I anything but a weightlifter but a lantern but a firework in winter but I broke my local library’s printer (page 124: too heavy!) and the library girl was there and I wonder what your name is and why the dark circles but there are things I got to take care of first like making sure Hans Jonah Jenssen dies and then they get married like dancing in parking lots with strangers like blowing up my mind some night imagining Marina atop a weathervane in Washington, D.C. waiting for a hurricane to wipe her out like a poetic ant like a militant act like returning home without telling a soul
(he wanted to go to a second-hand bookshop because he was looking for an early thesaurus to find unusual synonyms)
need new words
Last person on Earth scenarios happen daily. All great polyphasic sleepers are dead. Yeah, baby! The rain came wrong and damned the apple blossoms. I love loving you more than I love you. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with our privacy practices and do let us know if you have any questions.