In a circle full of moisture and baked apple pie’s, I crave and hold the periphery of Words like a sullen extension of truth. A point of solitude. I rub my skin to find the unsaid, undiscovered words, I rub my iris, my white thighs like a fiction produced by swallowing catharsis.
Discover. Run. Run in your stockings. Run in your shoes. Find the haze. Catch the molecules. Choke on the existence of W O R D S. Seduction. Dedication. Sanctification. I don’t want to be alive, for I am soiled and drunk. I am married to the drops of inebriation of pale figure.
Drop by drop I bleed poetry and imbricate the words on my yellow walls, on the roofs of my cracking teeth. Bites of cold potato shiver me…
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