When The Raisins Ate Nothing.

Intolerant eyes seep through the cracks in the door;........................
Reiterating our thoughts in a million microdots.
Broken Bubbled Blisterine screams.
Juga juga juga,that is the story we will tell.
The telling of stories is an alternative,
To sitting back and watching the synapomorphy of our taxomine scars,
((Together; in the balance or under it))
I hang and cling to my dear Cecilia,the dearest of all.
Her smile like a panting old whale and an empty soup can.
Who are I'm I?,The pimple who left here with no shoes.
Weevil bites Ah-weigh da coN-Struck-shun Of Our sa-lu-bri-us dreams.
Maid 2 see all dat we are through ah-foh-rest-ay-shuns of duh-bul bah-rell-ed egos.
Hungry.
I lost my footing,but you remain unstressed in our iambic pentameter,
Cecilia.
This is not a love song,yet
but it will be.
Patience,my dear.
This is a cluck cluck duck - an Uh-peh-ray-ting( )fan-tom.
Orphaned peat on prophane date.
I like how our hopes wobble like a wet wheeler and wail out of uncomfortable conversations.
No,I will bear no compormise.
Devised a destitute demon in the drawer of our throats so we would say the words we wanted to hear,in slow,apple,Bram-tuckling,ram-buckli ng noose-fitting,Cran-crafitng doses.
Lance after lance we dance into the gas chamber of our immaculate whispers.
Drawing in every primordial urge with cryogenically infused antlers.
Gregorian temples the sound of metal plate kissing metal plate.
Slashing mental slate into mental slate.
Alas,we find the lips on which our menta sate.
I find that you were easy to love when you were scanty and silent.
But now you are manumitted by the mutations of your menumbra,
And your hips sway to the zingGraaaa in other mens eyes.
O foul spirit.
How can I wrest you from your foolish conceit?.
I Freeze your diencephalon
until you think nothing.
I feel you die in my hairy arms,
And I lay you beside harrowing daffodils,
That sing you that ugly song you never wanted to hear again.
The weevils bite away my thin veneer and I lay dead beside you.
The color of sky and amultitudeofpowderedbabies,
This death is an epoch that kills every other one under its weight
Our glorious synapses;
Dis is da home-O-low-jus Kro-mo-some that will stand to evince our every meiotic prophase,
This is indefinitely a love song.

- JSL. 

Reviews

[Priscilla Sayers]

Very much an enigma that brings a confused state of perception, a more concise view of perplexion and still sorrow os the only emotion that rises. A great piece as always, even if my perception is undetermined.

[Devanshu Rajput]

great write...lovely piece...keep writing.

[Joshua Lean]

Thanks.I will.