My face is stretched pale, my armor rusty;
All screams have vacated by morning got lost somewhere in sinister imaginings/ Gone!
Gone with fearless lips seductive silhouettes dipping the wall period red with words
And worlds co-existing effortlessly, without even the mind of vast consciousness in the upper regions:
A slow-motion kiss, a long-distance connection in a head-on collision;
Sex and love forever at war together in pieces down my throat with strange pulses
And mystery births, extraordinary Spanish feet cutting conversation in two and riding
Me into the living room/Barcelona!
Everybody is in Barcelona for the time being what we can, our souls in euphoria caressed
By the infinite pores and scent of something foreign: Legs, rubber, creeping chromosomes –
Isn’t it home moan? Isn’t it eureka?
The tiles begin to reshape past the walk; they sway and rat out old constellations from an autumn wall
Made to touch made to become a galaxy of faint freckles, a perpetual habit the rim of her smile her nostrils her teeth, which never seem to fit.
Out the den window is an orchard with the same sloping neck good morning.
Chris Weige | Austin, TX.