thinking of your notes,
i dream of you,
sitting next to me
with ink smeared lips,
hands caressing your pen
as if it were my breasts
i think of words, ripe,
falling from your tongue -
plucked and squished
to juice by summer fairies
and i want to preserve their taste
for scentless days
Don’t talk
or think or even breathe
you smile – just
close your eyes, drink, trace
their patterns while they fall
to rest,
melt with the graphite of your pencil
and let the words
invading you,
splitting your bowels
with a crimson spear,
cracking you open ’til
you can’t be sure if you -
just dive, die, dance or drown
in a HundredCharcoaledFountains,
spilling your life like ink
across the barriers you have built
.
.
Anton Gourman wrote a wonderful poem, based on this one and I can highly recommend the read – you can find it here
.
and…it’s one shot wednesday again…gates open at 5pm EST ..let’s flood the place with poetry…hope to see you there..
