the sharpest berries live in the back of the fridge
frigid sourness flavor soaked in tungsten syrup.
after dark some go home others gather walking
constricted ways I count rosaries of sun-dried
curd-chilies eating my stiff spinach hair
like a good boy my every-other-gully name
leaps off my flickering body & I crane
at every audible word possible name.
stay in touch touch stays isn't much anyways
arms around necks like flayed women peeling off their stakes.
a thud of resurrection the drum of drawing wire
from cold metal before thickly spun before completion
add sibilance to my name rousingly punctuate vowels
making me a thread content with being thread.
~Ajay
26/1/2020
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
