Physical interaction in retrospect is the best form of literature, I say.
Literature walks and gives me headaches. It leaves me scars.
It puts a smile on my face and wears it off over time.
It strips me of my clothes and makes me shake.
Literature is comprised of bare appearances and hard lighting.
The folds of skin and the creases under lids,
under the curves of nostrils,
under lips, under chins, Subjectivity and taste
under bosoms, are interchangeable.
And they under you.
are beautiful, I can b
the words I read in your eyes. e
And I’ll have you know I’ve learned n
how the wisps of your hair wrap around d the paths of the so-called tunnel
your neck like vines and how they stick like of your vision like
seaweed to ripe skin. I know how the cold night you can
casts its glow on that perfect widow’s peak b
on your head and why you flash your e
chipped teeth with pride. I do. n
I delight in your disorder. d
my dirty knees to the ground.