lycanthrope and so her lips rested
like a laborer
does away
from the sun
against a tree
that's been both their bareness
The surplus, the runoff is taken
away in trucks while he sleeps towards
Tantalus, a capital city somewhere.
his children longing for a plan
with their eyes.
But one more day it will take,
living with "as if" under
their pillows. as if tomorrow
will take less of a toll.
as if the trucks will stop
coming and proclaim this pitstop
the true kingdom.
and so her lips rest.

something in her eyes
is like the revving
of an impatient truck,
waiting to carry suspicions
into a vast multitude
of kitchenettes and crisp
fruit aisles with their manufactured
lightning storms.
And here the lightning storms are real.
But we aren't so idle to dance to them.
My words become official so far away from me. And we receive
the runoff.

Something in her mouth
is a child's voice
that says lets have a feast
today and we'll
starve tomorrow.
The trucks can wait forever,
we can consume their dissatisfaction.
Our boundries so devastated that
death is a peach we consume
first at cautious dewey fizz and
then past regret to a soft ridged
into spilling.
Your kiss is emptying the surplus
Your kiss is the sin of a peach
its sweetness untainted in it picked by the hand of a starving man.

and sent away in trucks bouncing
jubililantly like middle class kids
on a road trip. and their parents are home preparing spaces on their walls for degrees, a long line of ballet lessons, never taken too seriously and now this.

your lips, offering the rare trade of places,a word never meaning here.

how can i be so frivolous to know
in mind that the world is vast
and yet to feel satisfied to erasure with the straining gateway of lips.
Starvation is pillow talk.

Untill i'm gone. Untill i see how blind
i was going through the world, edging corners with my lips.

and when socrates drank the poison down - was the liquid sweet? what were his last thoughts on truth then? did he compromise and die?

a real hand now forgotten crushed the poison from those berries as a sort of thrown away legacy.

and i'm not supposed to want these things. it seems living beyond my means to let your lips disfigure the round world of been and been again to corners unrelenting in their obscurities. where are the tired days i promised somewhere though i cannot remember where?

the children of the world depend on me to tell them what a peach means.
to tell them how it is different than a kiss. and i've forgotten.
phil today 020729
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