XX, Biased, 313

My landscapes are gargoyle without your strawberry analysis.

A moth may have slipped into my drink; its wings are papyrus classic, now drenched in grape Atlantis spit. 

I want to drink it, as my personal weather needs a change.

I want to taste the phenom.


Maybe we could sip from the same straw.

Would your taste agree with my cells and leftover mosquito taunts?

Could you bend the straw to your preference, or would its creases screw with your eye symmetry–push your vision into blurry Wednesday?


Grey is the shade of ladybug gurgle;

She vomits the opposite of her red apple shine; what she is unable to extend to the outside.


Would you be willing to staple me together, flesh tones against lightweight steel?

Could you find a new home for my pale?


I adjust my kite to your nighttime, in the hopes that you’ll spot it in your sky;

Feathering the moon’s imperfect caricature carcass;

Think of me in its design.

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