Filed under: Poetry
I feel the rush of what was stifled, each lobe in battle for release so that I grasp both sides of a rain drenched skull
and feel my bones, stretched to breaking
and wishing the head was a double joint
that could flex and bend away, let leak in subtle emission, emotion, before building in riot
and fighting, unmapped against blue eyes arching over, shadowed by umbrellas
and words I don’t agree with – didactically imposed
Living is a game of missed nitrogens.
Splicing, Cleaving, heaving specimens of disease and control operating from the lack
picturing explicit incision before inevitable rebuke by the anti-body faction that breaks against its other side
Touch: to bring one’s hand, or another part of one’s body into contact with.
if my science rebukes touch, then touch is not a part of science
the bad chemicals in my brain refuse touch, and I am left
gapped in lack -
My heart is a drum machine, while my mind has lost all rhythm,
I am playing tricks on both of us.
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