Launch MP3 Player

29 Aug 2008

The scorched earth whistles kisses as you canoe the sky
shoving clouds into an ipod for later.
He collates different kinds of nuts for long journeys.
I use them as confetti at the wedding of my favorite squirrel.
Our mothers die in the lands they were born in.
We practice harpooning imposters from a mile off.
You scorch your desires into my garden with a cattle prod.
I complain that the dishwasher has lost its ability to drain.
She takes a highlighter pen into a confession booth.
I hurl grief into strangers’ bank accounts.
She posts X-rays of your eyelashes to the Pope.
I realise the real star of ‘Singing in the Rain’ is the lamppost.
You blow bubbles at the bliss factory.
I dance across the gravitational pull.
The tips of your mouth become the spires of the Kremlin
pointing the birds away from the oil spill.

© Sarah Gillespie 2012 Web design by Linus Design