GIRLS AND BOYS

 

The magic g-language struggles with complexities of the game. Fingers split and take guard in pages of handwritten inquiries. Rhythm splits into irritated characters wrought with frustrated stairs. She’s luxurious with sincerity and squirms a scrupulous system. G reads encyclopedias on equilibrium under the sky’s miscellaneous accessories of hysterical laughter. Her body sinks to a liquored salutation of lust resembling a placement of lips for the taking.
She signs her name in loops and exaggerated lines.

B is the scribble beyond control for a legible girl.



KIDS

Stepping back, you find
they’re filled with glass
and become mirrors ¯
over and over, lip-pressed,
each against the other as
against each other for time.
Frozen.
The one and the other and
in between
where the hand melts again ¯
that space you already know.



BREAK/CUT

For the body
For the book and page
Cut the kids in half ¯
Diagonal-edged end of botanical hunting routine from conclusive book of body

For some body
Punctually, formally
Which/what poison plant cut to kill they, who speak too fast and split,
dizzy themselves a spasm to retain control back from addicted perspective
of ceremonial daisies,
posies,
the new end sweeper ¯ a warmth of sun pulled a petal from body
Another page from the book

Pulled a scent from
body put out of commission and
Which/what poison?
You, with no B
You, so sure language is pollen ¯ is biographical ¯
Is the hand you picked and
held you prick-thorned, pulled in love
Fed off each other’s cuts


"Cut the kids in half" taken from the song, "Morning Bell," by Radiohead.