sobota, november 12, 2005


something in me
wants to curve and bend and wriggle
like an injured worm
something else tends to deliver
inhuman voices
undescribable craving for
sneaking into his veins
fill him up
so he could experience this split sensation
and enter me through my skin pores
one misty afternoon
when i am squashed like a rotten tangerine

if he tasted the fine layer of compulsion
embittering my tongue
he'd melt in my mouth
and peacefully dilute


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