Gemini

Underneath the black walls of light
My star man, the female aspect
I left behind: enwombed in time:
Yang hides its yin inside of him
&
Here’s where we never have to choose
Between below and all above
Inside my yoursoul : two-sided:
A safe space for those gods to talk
&
More and more his old dark pulls me
Toward that crush in the center
Where if I wake she’s standing on
The ceiling looking up at me

Sparks

Scrying her nine million microscopes,
Mind drunk on laniakoscopy, she
Plucks with lust a loom of golden leylines
Harplike to focus the nlimnite crystal
At her one Gargantua Particle

Bestowed on the angels each, like their gnames,
The Particle: a corpuscle of God:
She enstashed that hraw monad in her mind
Working an eviternity till now
To coeurprehend its weird architecture

Crystal, keys, chi-glyphs each in syzygy –
Sophia wrings a splash of ylem from an
Ygg tree growing in her laboratory –
Crazy apples cooling on the timepane:
A wicker basket of black holes for snacks

The sounds of Yes om slow and molten from
Her intricate instruments – unichords –
For now is the wowly kairos! she sings
And tipping accidentally, her cup
Dispills its psychedelicacies. “O!”

Dripsy daisy the liquid seeps in deep
Drench-and-drowning her only particle
Oiling over those glittering leylines
With the quality of oh no. The Oo
Eximploded and Sophia with it

Oh, What I Would Let You Do to My Journal.

I want my words
in bed
with your rods and cones.

I’m a young gun,
but I can rhyme some sounds
and I am down to go down on
some extended metaphor.

I want you
to open wide
your eyes
and I’ll do mine
and we’ll read each other
and scream things.

I want discursivity
and your fluidity
and your phenomenology
and ontology
on top of me.

Let’s talk.

Let’s have a
conversation
about your form,
‘cause it piques me, honey bee.

Get me off
this screen.
I’d love to be
between your sheets,
wet with ink.

Let’s alliterate a lot
and let lyrics lick little
liminal spaces lightly.

Let’s write each other letters and seal them with kisses then tear off the envelopes with the hunger of younger lovers.

Let’s let go.

God keeps talkin’ shit, Callin’ me out by name, Reminding me I’ve been made, In my own image, And she ain’t to blame. Her hands are clean Of my conscience, Even when she moves in, To slap my mouth silent, The sin-stain stays with me. I can’t wipe away the tears, Pooling […]

via My own mistake — Post-Neology