Because It Sang with alien Taste
July 15, 2010
How I dream it
Her voice and maybe the way those damned orbs, windows as usual; all round and enveloping, jettison sadness as
she drags her fingertip across the spiny alien surface; pulp glistens. Nail through skin juice sweet or bitter or vegetative (Russian Roulette of sensory)
threads, pregnant serpents full of sweetness, between my teeth and hers challenge to extract that milky white fiber or satchel of juice from between hers with swipe of my tongue. Lizards—no. Or maybe.
Just her id and mine; the latter stronger now than previous and taking her hand wrapping my arms around licking dew with her shoulder and the smell of her I’ve been there before never tire of it capacity infinite she knows and in time it will open and she’ll arrive too
emphasis on second-to-last two-syllable utterance
