by Max Bouillet

a pang
and syrup trips into
the neuro pool
(a sweet sludge
that vows god)
crimson clots babtize
blue knuckles and trojan sperm.

at her feet...
the wrapper pirouettes,
the rusted fan exhales illicit smoke,
and reveries of angels
dangle from nooses
(wings clipped by the language
of loud men)
a liquid twinge
and a lick of the lips
as the pearl unearths its strand.


Posted on 06/02/2003
Copyright © 2020 Max Bouillet

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Don Coffman on 09/01/03 at 02:46 AM

Intriguing reading for the mind's eye, alluringly mysterious.

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 10/01/03 at 11:44 AM

seemingly these visions are rapt in mysteries as if dreamt by Daniel.

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