aesthetics pt. 1

what is poetry
if not
a complex underground of scribbles
holding back the hour—

the way her arms
make triangles around his
soft clock of minutes and seconds—

words growing nimble legs
& dancing a spritely jig
disjointed
harmonic yes
and no
the monkey will not dance without his forest—

the oceanic overwhelming
warmth of
joyous mass
when her arms & the words & monkey & scribble
become one
titanic frankenstein chorus—

an infant suckling upon the breast of
hypnotic misery—

the moonlight, blushing,
as it slips quietly between lovers' tangled limbs—

the titillating tick tock of surprising syntax,
where vocabulary has a harsh & violent undertow
& death remains the midnight chime.