how do i stop myself from falling and smacking flat against my germy mobile screen when there are beautiful fake souls you've inked out beyond the glass that i want to dip past and brush with the tip of my acheing finger?
i've found myself to be in possession, or partnership, with a real boy's soul. too real, in fact, because he falls infinitely short of the plumbline. i cannot hold on to it, i cannot feel its weight in my palms and mould its shape in my fingers- it's watery plasma, a hot coal of infinite quantum grains of shifting sands falling through my rotten tangerine fingers.
dear women, could you teach me how to staple the blueprint of these men onto his undulating foetal spirit?
i seek your wise counsel, women, for i am a part of the great gaiaic cell but i am still a speckly sapling, though my vine slithers up tall, curling and leaning on the chiselled quartz pillar of your back. that great tower i have craned my neck and peeled my eyes open to gaze upon for twenty years and coming. even though the water pricks my eyes you never waver, o great ones, so tall and strong, draped in marble-chiselled cloth i can trace the inky veins on with a tickling fingertip.
YOU ARE READING
heartburn expulsion
Poetryan ongoing collection of the love poems of nobodi. the full anthology of nobodi's poetry, "i'll never be a poet", can be found on wattpad as well.
