The Showerhead

Under the dismay of fairy tales coiled, forced placid to foliage the dark roses, the earnest glaciers tracing  whistles of deep xylems- A bush of gnosia, crayons flushing the trail of water scotch (the very impotence of dilution), seething virgin strands intertwined and twinkle cherishing loss, the harvest of a harvest.

The showerhead had all fluorescent properties, the tease of underlying paranormal curtailings were beyond evident. The bathroom feigned the pallid sesh blue impinged into grid lines over a white archaic wallpaper, spilling heavy daffodils.

Goddess of Moisture

Your face purports a radical need of my own infantile totemisation, pursuing thy heart with watercolours possessed by a masochism so fresh and fertile… your sensitivity is your greatest flaw, your need to- introverted timorous rage on white conscripted walls, pasting your heart as syrup columbines smothered into the utopian dew…

You have no face.

Your desire to heave the emulsion and the crumbling of your obedience as vague orchids chained, blushing lazily as you are (a violet hysteria to your palpable… slow as streams pace engorged in the lush of their reluctant insemination, the fruition being both the caving of a lucid vertigo, floating entranced like a crucifix resenting bottled scribblings of an impasse heaven.

To hold you close, brush instill the fragility of all stimulants, of all that is reducible to atomic prejudiced love…your eyes pair vertebral to the stillness of the world crushed and dehusked into the seams of an earnest magenta- modules of wisteria and square threshed jealousy.

O lurid creature deriving from cornflowers dressed in stale magnolia, you.

Vessels demonize thy heart for the following reasons…

1. Your sighs have an immortalised timbre to their clairvoyance, like a non scrutinizable choir fog.

2. Your bed shivers without your presence, the sun metamorphoses into a limp ice cube, breathing in all that rave of sterile milk.

3. You never laugh.