I’m lying. I’m a lion. The domain
of a circular way out. A moon
is behind me. The rest of the field
Somewhere, the bitumen complies
the sole, then goes home with it,
anything to get away from the motion
sickness of the ocean. It’s a bit loco
the persnickety bedaub,
the way we go on,
the oil rig like a planet
off the beach. Along the shore,
the same escaped mote of tar
the size of a plate you can moor from.
It has a rainbow sheen bite on offer
with lips the men like: dark slash adorable.
It seems a blackhole would look like this,
slow rising spumes, not popping, faces peep
multiplied- it wants to keep all of us. It sucks
the time out of travel. I’ll book a cave to breathe
together, but this time,
it’ll be an aquarium,
this time, it’ll be a vacuum. But only if you’re going
to be here on time. These
are conic, me at one
and the station at another.
There’s no soil here to count on
yet I’m lying in wait. Orion’s near-by
with a cure, the sum of suns are here
to curry our favor, or mine at least
since you’re still on the sonic, something
so fast it left behind a signature.
The minute you arrive
will incur a tint of rum, the belt
of sixty seconds means nothing here.
It'll be frozen in amber that drips drunk
and ancient down the icon
between automatic and platform.
Will we lick each other
until our centers resemble
a parable of the safari city?
Pits spit and beans talk.
Plains and notions. Needless,
you were rooted somewhere
between Penn Station and locust warnings. You
ordered coffee and laid the lip print angle
towards the window. Circumspect rituals
of betting men. You stir, you circus,
you current locomotion mourning the sunsets
because there is sunrise on the ruins.
Written by yelluw_always
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