Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

June 07, 2010


Forget yourself really
walk with your feet
on the goddamned dirt.
Tangle moss in the crowns
of your teeth; lick dung
like gumdrops and draw
draughts off the lips of
the dusty wind. Taste that
smoke. Walk with broken
feathers in each hand, sylph.
Stretch out your arms and live
just off the grit of your shadow.

[final draft of an old poem]

Posted by Delire at June 7, 2010 04:41 AM
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