slippery like silk

a writhing worm

the morning of rain, dirt caked

laughing together with mud in our fists

My knuckles curled tight

airly perfumed, light as satin sheets

sonorously, that single word effused

was it love? what was that word?

singeing the hair of my nose

lungs greasy and charred

i am blind to your poignancy

a blend of senses

I love you flutters

butterfly silk

i cannot distinguish...

we live in a land where the footprints of

ghosts linger

sinking into the clouds

the soles of souls

swirling in the soupbowl sky

slighting sunrays off their backs

laughs of life loll up high

like lyre strings they are snatched

plucked by the bodies of wispy gasps

mouths that hunger to be heard

pool with smoke

stain the night black...

The lights flared and convulsed like writhing worms overhead. The airport was a concert light-show, beaming upon Jack’s face, slicking him with sweat, singeing his pupils to a dilated disorientation. The sporous limbo between security and terminal-6 hung in the air as they lugged ahead with a lugubrious repulsivity. The carpet sagged under his feet, dirt-tracked and pigmented a moldy pomegranate j...