Delicate and drunk I wander a
garden of dreams, bitter flowers twisting,
petals ripping at the seams, and I
yawn, silent indignance at the
sweet flickering shadow sneaking around
the edges. This garden is not round, it does not
roll, but it is dough in the hands of the weak.
Helpless and raw, I smile still, my tongue
beating in the cave of my words,
manipulated, like the tune of the
thousandth fiddle. One lazy lick and I blow over like
gossip, all the while winter whispering in its milky rasp,
‘You are awake.’
The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.
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All You Can Think
bed
black cats
body heat
books
bruises
bullshit
coffee
comebacks
constellations
cowboys
dancing
darkness
dick
dream
drunk
eyes
fire
flowers
freak
heartbeats
holes
Hope
kiss
kisses
laughter
lick
lips
Love and Other Ghosts
midnight
mirror mirror
naughty
numbers
on the shelf
outsider
owls
pearls
pedicures
piano
pride
reflection
relfection
secrets
shadow
skies
skin
skull
smile
smoking
sparrows
stars
stones
strangers
strawberries
Stupid Girl
sunglasses
sunsets
Temper Temper
the Blues
the lemon tree
tongue
ugly
velvet
waiting
whistling
wine
winter
wishing
Word Poodles
Le Petit Biographie
- Alexia
- I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.
"my tongue
ReplyDeletebeating in the cave of my words"
Come. On.