Eyelid paint. . .
a ruined afternoon, no cigarette for the curve of my lips,
I sight-see in this world through the distortion in his eyes,
his acrid touch on reality.
Don't wake up. . .he says. . .
I can't. . .
His kiss only sends me back into the tide
Our love brews like wild mushroom tea; the steam drowns me. . .
I fluoresce upon engulfment like
a direct conduit to a spiritual experience
he spills his lines on me. . .they transcend reality
the sting of the carpet burn. . .is a memory we don't care for,
we are each other's illusion of death;
I cry for more fuel in order to fake the hot temper, that keeps his wood burning
he is the destruction,
the pentacle with worn tips
the blemish on my reputation
His speech is so low, and so oily, it slides straight in,
he opens my wounds, with a pick and shovel
and takes the calcium from my bones to feed the earth
He will die of unnatural causes for. . .me
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts in Room 27
PoetryThe text leans towards a literary movement known as “ultra-romanticism”. The exploration of the idealized and idolized and how they become both the object and the objectified. It questions self-destruction, the consequences of solitude taken to extr...
