Gravity's Bitches

Hey, 

I can’t stop thinking about how you move. 

​

Lifting  

from sweat glands to milk  

Bipedal skipping 

With that strange relation to blur 

You blow  

Polyscenic rhythms 

into the shirt pocket  

Of his Angelus 

Leaving futures mumbling 

Through a secondary palate  

Unfolding image words 

Figures of thought 

The baskers of Estrus 

Existing......  

five fingered handed 

only in so far as to be seen 

 

But hey, don’t worry 

We are all just Gravity’s Bitches