decor

our hands are in paint
to the soundtrack of 45
revolutions

yeah yeah yeah

per minute

our hands are in ink
on a map of persia
like it's norouz again

goldfish and apple

and we are redefining
the empire

in the morning
we'll survey and walk
barefoot on its shards
it will make cute

w a l l p a p e r

our hands are in milk
at the temples
of mystics

we are covering our bases



October

a circadian moth
dines on light
diminished
it will starve

i waste my sorry
on small things
inanimate things   even
give unto people
what is people's



untitled

he has practical bones
a list for everything
in silhouette
we spit out plans
in midair
they form a compound word

he asks
how will you do all that
without money?
i ask
how will you do all that
without youth?



toiletries

hopeless little reminders
find little ways onto my palms
in the middle of sleep

they are oneiric notes or carnal origami
parents dreaming in the same bed like muted sex
they are whispers
from outside my skin neither
masculine nor feminine

every waking i am treading random music
every waking i peel fingers out of fists
at the core just smeared ink residue
swallowed by palm creases

having poisoned my blood with dreams unremembered
i squeeze a tube of toothpaste
into some semblance of life



About the author:
audri sousa is equal parts from san francisco and the part of california recently on fire. she likes oolong tea, bizarre instruments and sudoku. she also finds teeth highly disturbing. her work has appeared in transfer magazine and the corduroy mtn.

© 2011 Word Riot