The day I cut my hair off was the day I bowed my head to apologise to every girl I’d ever called “pretty.”
I acted as if god themselves did not pulsate
inside
each
ripe
peach.
Royalty envelops beauty
as medicinal roots steeped in well water
for durations that end in a rolling boil.
It’s the sustainence that serves
my soul fresh water
of the universal babbling
Brooke.
It’s like splashes of raw nectar
inside my mouth.
Off the brim of that teacup
stains of dark chromed droplets
S p r i n k l e
All over my fresh white notepad.
I will clean it up later.
I am sorry; pretty —
that’s not the word for you.
Beauty is the sound of the heart beating: thump, thump, thumping.
I guess; I am just trying to express...
that I feel something each time I see you.
I sing praises to that devine madame matrix, that impregnable imagination of the empress in this holographic realm.
That womb drum that created those rhythmic harmonies between the two femur bones.
Yeah— you, bring out a god in me too.
Yeah, you bring out a god in me too.