The child has been ravaged
So they bind him like
Youthful sapling
Fill his weighted mouth
With chocolate
Then tell him to grow sweetly

His parents are insects
Exerting power over
Honeyed trees
Helpless are his branches
Stretching upwards
Rooted to begging for release

The lover is a species
A poetic madwoman
Born to mysticism
Healing freedoms trapped
In full-body tragedies
Aroused by militant memory

Their seed is The Egg
Incubating experimental
Human Production

Their word Is Syrup
Melting from heaven
To lips

The weight of the mother
Conforms to the bend of
Fathers manipulation

The child has been prepared
So they stretch him like
Youthful sapling
Fill his weighted mouth
With earth
Then tell him to grow

A salesperson at the furniture store showed me two sofas, and said one was better than the other because it had reversible cushions. He explained the beauty of reversible cushions was the ability to turn them over and hide stains without compromising appearance.

It led me to ponder upon the general falseness of appearances, and of the institutions that have corner[ed] markets that profit from the under and over exposure of our stains.

It may be a stretch to desire furniture as equally honest as the self, yet still I wondered who might walk through my door and not be afraid to stay, either for fear of ‘catching’ my darkness, or yielding to my light. We can see one other as diseases or cures, it just depends on how far we’re willing to stretch the meals that life has been feeding us.

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