by devi beloved

extrinsic heptaculon, or a careles wishper tissued fillingly into the foyd // you backlustred the tritocosm, chilled with all sorts of crusties, & resolved by dropping bellydown pennyup in someone else’s little nest of gold // i cannot hear, i am a marchcross without rendering on the true plane of turpid gelatine which clopered & preset the efforts of many, for today evades & disintervades us, & time is a site for sitting & (be)longing // our truth was a slogan traded as slippage between teeth: i forget things, sometimes — methodological stanzas, mostly — & fumes of disreason when the miscellanies seek (per purpose) to convey // nostalgia is a dance for the heart & mind // touches single down across my flips & skinpack, the fresh plumage of sure flesh fangling, flecksoiled & sirsute — it grows on ya, how we bedeck & shunder the fleet feet fondling loam, negotiating hole fixes & never quite forgetting // sorry mate, can’t sort ya out, see me name’s not jason though it’s all part of the journey — good times // hold me: i am your flutterbye, your part wingset, & antipated synthesy is what i’m all about, on which i stake the sick syllables of this sordid name //