Let’s meet under circumstances of
concrete snails
slipping into curves of space
the way your fingers steal into
the fabric of
my moist cosmos
pink nebula of ecstasy
purple supernova
of sin
Let’s hide inside freight trains
filled with memories
of travelers now gone
mad remnants of a past life
only sometimes lived:
a red bandana
a flannel shirt
a bruise lusting it’s way to
the surface of our skin
Let’s jump into Babushka dolls and
peel away the paint that
paints us thin
of Sarafans and socks
and panties and push-up bras
pushing carts of turpentine
into tighter
and tighter
spaces
Let’s dig ourselves to China
using only shovels and spit
it’s a long road into oblivion
where
nothingness
begets
nothingness
begets
Slide your cheek up against
my onion areola
as we strip off layer after
Borettana layer
of Allium skin
let’s stumble into Spring’s black-holes
and picture what it’s like
to be:
About the author:
Jacqueline Anne Young wishes she could find the perfect words to describe what she sees more easily than she currently can and wonders if anyone else has just as much trouble as she does. She can be seen in journals such as kill author, Writer’s Bloc, and The Legedary. Her current life goal is learning how to whistle as well as Andrew Bird.
