blueberry orgasm by David McLean

the road is blueberry orgasm, tiny suicide is smelly their heaven. the laboring saviors are broken again, boring. we have a wall to stare at once, like Bodhidharma did, but are less than him

the best of them were always already dead & nothing is to be forgiving or forgot where suns come up, where moons are in us still enough

the bone is abject & smoke rising over a battlefield is pointless ecstasy we cannot appropriate as easily as fish burn in insolent waters poorly

there might be flowers or razors, abject their answers are, here is tepid absolution & fuck me a forgotten

i do not care that i do not know the number of insects, or even if it might be odd or even, specific boundaries might make it indeterminate, or heaven again, skin & sullen business so memories are sex & bruises, where i am my meaningless

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2 thoughts on “blueberry orgasm by David McLean

  1. the poem with scissorlike precision-randomness lacerates through what a populace might still consider as probabilistic and possibly projectionally vistas of future and past, now and never.
    whichever portrayal can be given of these bleak while celestial, nowhere deistic nor religionpsychotic plazas: here is the place where they are navigated most aptly.

    Liked by 2 people

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