Waking up my boyfriend is proving unsuccessful so i shall sit here listening to Beck.

Let the syllables of my hair,
make your teeth crack. Clap,
clap, your teeth are

left on my chest and
I am watering the
cavity.

To rose petals
on the end of my tongue,
and a foreign
feather dancing in dirt.

Author's Note

this is nothing special.
i am writing. and writing. and writing. and i am happy.

Reviews

[Collect-Eye]

this reminds me of the matisse mural about the dancers..Jack and I were discussing it at Barnes..how it pans across the top arches of the interior wall of the lobby and can be seen best from upstairs..anyway, I'm just picturing your hair speaking by dancing..someone or some thing or even your own thoughts are chewing their way to your heart..and you transcend from speaking through your movements, [exemplified by your hair] and move into a softer expression and end w/ casual yet profound observation..that's how this piece spoke to me.

[Stammers]

I love your stuff, yano. I really do.