abcprincess (abcprincess) wrote,

i've been writing kinda surreal-like lately....hmmmmm..


So much for maps when youre gone in hardwood.
Not wood but that bridge, not slats but light through
them mazed us. Light: color of bald roots. All birds
resemble biscuits. We can walk in any direction and be
still in this matrix.

So much for picnics
near what we thought would be softwood. Stomachs
ramble ahead, they are our only echoes. Echo: color
of fat pigs. We keep cracking down centers. Biscuits
binary, if you show yourself, can we taste of your color?


Porn You, Pour Into Me2

I will wade out until my thighs
are color of raw sores. We had
worked this out, fed bread to birds
in ripe air but water kept us
from reaching the island of biscuit. We could make
a boat, thin as tissue, and paddle with our crooked
fingers. (I didnt say our fingers were knives
but crooked ones can be length of nails divided by
distance to island, squared and add a blanket
and two of my ass.) We, the landlocked,
obviously, wont make it
off this shoreits this damned ocean,
(a horizon of ocean) and if you squint
it flattens into a blanket of porn.

You have carried us from meshed nets
to stained bathing suits and back to matter.
It is math, the centripetal force of leaning
into you that confounds melength of
your legs subtracted in mine. I square you.
I divide me. This porn blanket,
the way it melts, I do before you.

i guess these poems kinda go together...the title of my book is "Bivalve" and i was gonna have the "bivalve" poem as the first poem in the book and the "porn you.." as the last....kinda a strange way to open and close a book cause the rest of my shit is different, i think..but what the hell.......
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