tell me you are

   awoke on the steppes  
I went to read her poems  
she pinned them up on the walls  
‘so this is where they’re shown’  
  as books of black-market  
we discard the fake dust jackets  
slivers of damascene jewellery  
ribbons stripped from the wrists  
each one  accounted for  
lay them on bed-sheets  
with their corner folded  
like a chapter in each other  
marked to return to later  
 a fawn of a breeze  
ran playing through the room  
circulating scent of vanilla  
'tis ok to be here  
 tripped over books of science  
- ‘their deep corollaries express  
mysticism not mechanism  
… the universe runs narratives  
through its veins  
down through pore and spine  
to  hands and  tongue (s)  
in their mid-stories’  
linen skin laid bare had space  
air graduated goose flesh  
both hand and tongue poised  
to dip from black orchid inkwell  
and tattoo a verse acted from a distance    
on her inner thigh awakening  
to electric the fiery bud  
lightnings in the moisture of her night  
intonations of delivered strokes  
for she reads the travail  
 to her hinterlands  
as an epic to lay dynamite  
under an avalanche  
of scream s of a river unadulterated  
its taste to be this close  
this, I swallow her  
for certainty I am still a  live
Written by nomoth
Published | Edited 5th Aug 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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