Three months in the clinic, one should be ready. I look down on you, one more escapade, to go down on you, and sharpen the blade.
[I did not know my nails would have grown so strong].
I grab you -both hands- to feel the skin and fatty, pillow-like juice. I shake you and I pull you out -you nasty rubber- you pull back in. How much bigger can you get? I inhale too deeply for my strength -anymore- and push the air to swell you, happy moments for my kids, indeed. Magnificent, so many years’ confusion. I do not know how the struggles have gotten me here, the struggles of too little food, or the struggles of too many a food.
The fool inside you, is he still there? Memory of a lifetime gulping, shame, retreat. I soothe the grabbing, squeeze a strange spot in a wrinkle and cuddle the umbilical cord.
...
Another area, along, above, across
asphyxiating alluvium around an aviating alcove.
Alertness, avowed archers arriving.
...
you are welcome to preview my book
'Throwing Dice on a Chessboard' at
http: //www.authorhouse.co.uk/Bookstore/ItemDetail.aspx? bookid=65801
(copy the link onto your address bar)
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