Piper's

PIPER

(Blushing tastelessly or an Imperceptible feeling that perhaps entails love)

Last year was quite like any year

I still loved the fluorescent pennings of the air, and the vagueness of my roses emanating their serenity through the abundance of their thorns, that coupled with the loneliness of palm trees nearby, now brimming with snow. Venus felt blue at twilight and the sun more Auburn than ever, as if those rays percolated through the populace of snow, clinging to the hardened breaths of earth. The sorrows of rare Kenal mud was met with the frost of all tertiary feelings- the depictions of the morgue threatened to flood my home. Tulips withdrew like mad, less ecstatic than the crimson fugue of the sun, nauseating yellow trills to disengage with the morose infarcts that predicated our space… and the cold, the cold was comforting.

The dérision of change lies exact, I craved nothing more but the petulant embrace of distance, of discharged nocturnes, they were attracted to me, their charms swinging buoyant to my utter abandon of bodies jest with lignin.

I found myself metamorphosing into a vessel of this dishevelled yet unforgivingly punctual being, found myself fluttering to the expanse of its briskness, its infallibility, its colonialist tendencies.

I flushed and swayed shyly to the remains of its turgidity, its impact bruising me at all the right places- my hearth curbing to the oblivious divinity of this wasteland.

The earth, being nonplussed and frugal, radiated new flowers, new colors to bloom the essences, the Dahlias rushing balefully to impart their share of arbitrary testimonial qualia- jealous of my endings they were, preying on my body to extract the wild human cauldrons, fearing any jargon of infertility.

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I just feel so much more appreciated… The demagogue is perhaps in love with me, at least I know he thinks of me. These améliorations, these amalgamations- they are all to seduce me, but I mustn't be seduced… I know why…

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Daylight rose… dawned, with sweet quirkiness and I knew perhaps filled sublime

That Jane was home and the chirping of solemn figs waned into desolate buds fastened under her presence.

The rustling flowers being ecstatic and tease prayed for better yet

The touch of frivolous ray ink , they are tall and crimson for me, her thoughts had such taste… must have that vague enchantedness

Impenetrable now… I want it to be as incomprehensible as possible…  should feel lightness and wavering of  humming instruments… chaste heartburns bearing the blessed unfeasible turmoil… she could kill it with a bedtime story,  the butterfly under the lamplight, the odour of the paraxial fumings were perhaps to be dreamt as rhizome, hear me out… must rush and confront the italics that arouse like blue monarchs craving each other… could see them through my morse window, they touch me south, loving crucifixion I urged the tender infant roses to clothe me, and they did, pecking on my skin, loved  dissociation, rebirth.

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[Mila]

Your writing lives in my head rent free.