Throwing It Out There
In this brief ode to joy (trademark Keats but more nightingales đď¸ and Grecian urns âąď¸ than indolence 𼹠or melancholy đâPsyche đ§đťââď¸ could go either way though she does link back to Eros đ so I think weâre probably good) I wish to clutch at tangibility, not so much via 1819 but my blessing of a đâ⏠who has half a shaved head, four shaved legs and a really healthy wound that still screams, âIâm here to audition for the role of Frankensteinâs feline,â (which also hails from the 1818-19 Romantic vault, and of course, she knows thatâI always tell her sheâs clever âşď¸ because why on earth would I not?) So too (to?) the happâthe hence and hereâs some of words...
âWe split it down the middle, bitten fighearts, needle through the tender seed. Every sticky drop licked from our fingers: how I recall your mouthâ        laughter descending to the valley,        light darkening to shadow,        but sweet        like figs.â
-Tamara Jobe, Figs-
You know how you know I know I love... just you? For every take, for every monumental yes, for every âmight sound weird but oh itâs really usâcome around again, like boomerparts đŚgot affianced, the meant that doesnât end but goes on, gives up all the fucks (down under âŹď¸)âjust like you like that, you wholly get me...đ
