After a bottle of sparkling
fine bubbles,
zesty and plucking my strand of decorum, frayed.
Pink, flushed skin like sandpaper,
cries to clean sheets as they try to recall a suppleness.
It will be windy in my dreams tonight.
A tacky mouth
is the window shutter snapping openshut,
the sloppy tongue
lathered thick with the white paste of truth,
foul smelling.
A lie is like a garden rose, fresh and transient,
you’ll remember it.
The truth, like manure will help you grow.
1 comment:
"plucking my strand of decorum, frayed."
that's a pretty cool line harriet, a real little gem of an image. i like it the best out of everything :) i think i will think of it often.
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