poetry makes no sense not a lick.

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To be free is to be body less.

What pelts the identity of a thing, my heart, worse than its coquettish way of seeming to be there?  You see, I thought it would be interesting to fill my body with feelings and use my intelligence to amplify, so that my body, upon expiration, would become a pinata of radiant and pure emotion.

But in the sleeve of light which played over all of this…this… rubble, I see that we are both constellations shaken out of bags, our own myths making us shine like mousse made of suns, putting glowey stuff in my hair is always fun.

I am gluey like a girl. You’re the glue man.

Your face was like milk poured into the sea. We all wanted to find a little divot to pour our faces into. I used your navel, you used my cupped hands, spreading like the sac of my body filled with cancellations and shavasana. Drizzling between my fingers came your bright hair. The stars became blindsopts when I stopped blinking.

My whole body writes.

I must write with my whole body.

Sometimes my eyes see images like these and I am so bold in my own skin, my own body bag housing all light and sound and fury. You can’t really see this anymore clearly now. It’s all changed this morning. It’s gone to the dumpster where nothing really rots but just rests there until next time.

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