He's the giver and I'm the taker
I'm the cutter and he's the paster
Our images, they fly and tremble like un-watered plants, dripping mountains like after the prairies.
The world's all hot and whispers remember the prickle ice in our hair and the shadows in which the flowers grew and we pissed and fucked and coddled to remind ourselves about dirt.
And strangers on the phone late at night, they whisper and we can see their big lips. And we're scared because people can find people. In books if they want. I don't want to be listed I want to hide from anything that moves faster than flower spreading her petals for me, hungry in the beauty that awaits me in the dream I am about to experience. Discover, transpire, she drips around in my body, full of pasty thorns and beams of angry love.
Fill notebooks with meaningless words until paper is done with me and wants to move on. We utter our spillings, our grieving which point us in the direction from whence we came. Gave.
Deliver us. Touch us and throw us against walls we have built with mortar like fire.