a morning in fragments . . .

tears tailored by the lonely bones of night -- the words are uncoiling, but snow white -- Needs to get BLOOD red...

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eyes closer to the ♥ . . . or maybe: veins, pillar to utmost, about to speak -- flavors adored form the roots / the peacock's mouth is a torch . . . or maybe: wherever you are thrust deep . . . or maybe: clutching the blossoms of the moon . . . [This ain't poetry, it's --] :)

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listening to an opera in Atlantis... fingers smeared w/ Rothko... [ah, velvet air]

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     Santiago.
     Slow and lazy.
     Little this, little yellow flowers. A soft district, no fog, no thrash, smiles you can hear in the glass windows. The bright one, simple as an escape cut into the scene—Ankles. And fragrant knees. You like her shoulders, scrubbed gently. Nice, with a little fire. You like the arrows of ready her mouth clasps. Nice how she reads. Slow. Nice little yellow print dress. Her legs make sense in it.
     Slow and lazy. Bit of this, piece of feast on her Scheherazade fingertips. Moments a little less chopped here; might be the cotton of her pulse; she twirls, her silk doesn’t bruise the secrets in your spoon. She’s a bird content with the threads you weave. Not love, but it glints with the same colors.
     Slow and lazy.
     Not writing it in the book. Not on the opulent paper. Not measuring disorder with light. Just enjoying how soft yellow is this time.

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Put her on a pedestal to taste/Lovely as a mystery filled w/ the loki paths of the ♥


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OK. OK. Yes, back to the editing...