Little yellow cottage on the brink of forever,
Brimming with solar powered daffodils
And sharp sharing,
You are a nest from heaven
For this feral human who always keeps
Her mouth pressed
To the sky
The floor is a guess,
is clear like water.
It is raining June in my hair.
My clothes are brimming with butterflies.
I am a sour after note to their beauty.
I was born to rise
to shatter sky.
Instead a jealous math
Fills me with mud.
Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.
No one has in faithless year after faithless year.
Knock it off.
I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.
God I wear blue well.
My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.
I am without my numbers and shapes,
sewn from cotton fields.
I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate
Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
Yellow reads the Kama Sutra
to write a new edition.
I admire her.
She admonishes me.
Lately I have rotted like wood,
muddled like a puddle.
Where is my orgasmic frenzy of doing
and being done?
warms the neighborhood.
Watch the eloquent vacuums roaming their halls.
The roofs are in love with the trees.
This is where lightning dies its death
no faster than you’ll die yours.
I was Lysol scented
dark light opening doors everyone wanted shut.
She was a bursting gummy bear the woman hugged
then woman devoured slowly.
But no one eats poison.
No one devours a sour black light,
and no one hugs it either.
Lush lights linger lightly on my legs.
Excess ecstasy jerks in my finger tips.
I have too much of myself.
I am smoldering.
My old jeans make juice from jam.
I’m going to take my face off
and dance with the band.
like where to raise fireflies,
consume my government.
I don’t share,
And my whole bureaucracy is off their meds, anyways.
Stop staring at my nudity.
You aren’t supposed to be here.
Look up water.
See what books,
so fearful of the subject,
refuse to stay.
Flowers gasp to stay afloat.
His desires spirit him away.
His desire to finger the piano,
with or without her face.
The touch of her mind on the water
Life and I do not care who we have.