in folds of my skin
my fingers explore
the soft innards of the comb
i taste you
i walk through a hall
made of beeswax, a smell
that will last for decades
now i hurt all the way to my
finger
tips
the color of the pollen
in a white room
bright piles of
sunflower, dandelion, milkweed,
your face in my mind
and the st-ick sti-ck s-t-i-cky
stays
until hot water rinses it away
or it turns (in the cold) to a
heavy sugar
inspired by a Wolfgang Laib art exhibit
3 comments:
Very interesting poem.. has a good feel to it i think..
but it can be worked on. I'd suggest being clearer and speaking more from the heart than simply relying on what we know "sounds good"- a problem I always have! :)
So much better Holly! I really liked it this time!! Just question the line "I hurt..fingertips", though it sounds wonderful, it seems slightly superfluous to me... just my opinion...
I have added your blog to my blogroll :)
like someone walking through a dream, desires held in little
pockets that stick to her needs,
and it hurts, the manifestation/s,
her life, a white room, her life,
a blank slate, but if she waits to long, her
desires turn cold and heavy.
Needless to say I really enjoyed
reasding this poem.
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