Flour of Flowers:

I. My soul grows weary in chrysalises

Unfurling into mother-of-pearl fronds

Of destiny’s bough,

Simple hand in nostalgia’s ravaged galaxy

Night’s brinks seducing the eyes: barefoot, nude, azure

Sand grains of every son, toenail of every daughter

Stinging nettles of every sister, eternity of bellowing mirrors

 

II. Taxis sedating a pothole-bruised artery

Peopled with crystal laughter

Procession of blood, thorny stars

Our miseries imploring storks

Memories mugging butterflies

The moon is a debutante

In the stoic world

Of unshod metals

Here, intoxicated poppies

Are rooted and weeping:

Without the florist’s

Morphine earthenware

Daydream inducing syringes

Abrupt dusts of honey

 

III. I dreamed we were anchors

Within the ganache sea,

Encircling in man-eating bows

Port of bitter youth, moist net of desires-

Thieving our shadowy fish of hope,

Ladyfinger fedoras, coils entwined in insomniac voltages

Foamy laughter dissipating within transient encounters

 

IV. Nascent comets evading the earth’s caffeinatedurn

And our widowed lies:

The spiders disentangled last Tuesday

From muddled infirmaries

Of ink, brine, wombs