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Palm Mute Guitars
Mugwort lined joints sit on windowsills,
To that somewhere a coffee spills,
Paused art-film stills
Recollection presses on...
Yet is hastedly forgotten
There is a contortionist in my bed
Feats of entanglement
Mutual strangling necks
There is a contortionist in my bed
Her legs glide as a pendulum
In the jutted sand of our knees interlocked
My perception of time is distraught
In the brutalist studio pretentious bodys roam,
but all are sentient, percieving, and inviting.
We have but now just entered the affairs,
I grasp onto stares
Like those tears, and gashes beneath our eyes
Oh what it is to lie upon the steepened mattress
with all of your amassed auras, as a collective being.
Jezebelle is feeding; Hookah smoke rises.
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The visions might induce deja-vu that is seemingly lucid, and romantic. Yet this is only about acts of free-love; the absence of such romance. Yet sublime all the same.
This free-form poem delves into the thoughts of someone who actively engages in such acts, and has yet to find why it is demonized by many. As there is peace, and prosperity in multiple people beneath the covers.