I wonder how she tastes
past her waist,
how her red hair is
much more red due to
the desire to commit
adultery (if I was married).

I wonder how her lips
suck onto the tip of
my tongue: she corrects my English,
and how she moans when she forgets
the possessive pronouns.

Do her marks and bites
bleed differently for those
she doesn't kiss?

"And when you kiss me,
I wonder you're just
not fucking me."

"And when you kiss me,
I know you're just
not fucking me."

I blink the circumstances away,
it must be temporary,
and we breathe it all
in and heavy and
out and light because
otherwise we'd be dead.

Literary Asthma

[original pic here - a little manipulated by me].

Death to the poet.
Half words in between
ashes of strangers'

lies her tomb.

The crumbling
cultured posed
falling off
a white horse,

its hair fluttering
with the breeze.

The poet has no air,

Pale & in Absolute

The poet is dead.

until the color red
read finally dead.

One less poetential.
What's the use of sun
when it's always covered
on clouds?


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