you squeeze it out, double-pea-sized along the underside of your tongue. it feels cool against your blue tendons, then stings as you press your tongue back down, squishing suns flat. they flare up in protest and singe your entire mouth, tongue and teeth and lips. blackened smoke rising from your nostrils. you open your mouth and a planetary ball of flame rolls out. i see it burn vermillion in the receding whites of your eyes, then blood swims to the surface and spills over your waterline and down your cheeks. it pools and floods and we sink below, drowning in warm holographic liquid as sparks fly into our hair.
- i ran a net along the skyline to catch the stars and turn them into bottled dust. i sprinkled it down and told you to catch stars between your teeth and keep them under your tongue, wishing upon them for divine lines to flow from your lips.
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poesíaand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
