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Latticework (Gaia Theory and The Baghdad Battery)

March 5, 2014


I licked.
The fat of your lip.
And you dripped.
Like a pipe.
Onto my.
On your hip.
As I slipped.
And slid.
Like a stumbling.
Slow dance.
Then, rode up.
All hobbled.
And horse breath.
Back in.
Your parochial objections.
To pill, pleasure and pin.
I’m an original.
Yours is.
At best.
A vestigial sin.
Like a hummingbird.
Or a ouija board.
Trembling to reach.
Something you’re weak for.
By beak.
Or planchette.
It’s a need I can speak for.
The way.
That blossom.
Bends the bough.
The snake.
Hanging loose on the tree.
Come and see.
Come and see.
From the noose.
You stare through slipgates.
East to Eden.
And watch the apple eating Eve.
The Angels all ascending.
And between their legs.
There are no leaves.
In this day.
In this age.
I’m all thumbs.
Fumbling out Pig Latin.
Whilst you say it.
With such grace.


From → Poetry

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