in turn, approaches, I then colour. spin this.
I and take it. couldnt resist it in a great lost new
and lost the colloquialness off all of that – lost the register but why? I became ever looking but didn’t I become lost. something why and something found, or to find this.
had that doing of that I had to do, lost why, that doing to do? I too far I, me, not-so-serious forgotten. I forgotten. I forgotten all of that.
Count the I in me, and was the I that doing in return – that colour looking reducing. the turn, taken known bit.
So was colloquial the first doing of attention? what am, what is this …
(nonsense and complete sense)
functions of bodily fluids. or the lack of …
you make some kind of beautiful mess that no one really
understands, so the sentence becomes poetry and repetitive.
but you do it anyway, and you tell it more than once with a bit of hope that someone might just be on that same page. because it makes
every single sense of the world to place
untold words into the shape of something like a
breast — but it’s not entirely a breast, no.
but it could be.
so then what do you do with it?
break it up into tiny fragments and pull every single piece apart until one
can completely represent you. decompose and breakdown every single
meaning of what this could be, just then, you might realise that everything is worthy, meaningful and consisting of the unnoticed …
no? … didn’t think so.
it’s not supposed to.
and you hold him
and you ride him
like a horse
left to lie
in a coffin
full of hose spit
and you place a hand on my left knee
please look at me
he watched you perform
firing your breasts
as you arch over
until he comes
like the bullet in your loaded gun