hello so i’m still in a loop of mental repetition

pronouncing the sounds of your name

 

wanting to get things exactly right, maybe like

trying to name exact shades, down to the micro-tone:

parasol pink? crepe? book-cover blush?

are certain times gilt & more memorable

are we just running caught in entire vast world of rain

all possible worlds and eye-locks predicted

by weather / mood

 

back on country he’ll try to avoid a sore throat & be cool

negating the galactic impression of over-eagerness

(cringe-worthy in its vastness) you know, msg-per-day rates

getting too high     instead observe him stuffing that urge

into images, poems, peppermint tea & warmer feelings

 

so i’ll meet you near the church again (all meetings

should have a memorable gothic façade)

& spelunk out the best coffee in town, objectively

speaking, because experience only comes served in contrasts,

escarpments, wind-speed & skin temperatures

 

when the wanting is a lot i court it awkwardly

 

like vintage pre-mixed alcohol in a ghostly shade of lemon

stuff is talismanic: a flavour of lemon more prevalent in 1996

not like today’s ‘lemon’   instead makes sense to ferry away

boxed wine & escape briskly      out-manoeuvre irate locals

plain scurry into nature’s articulation of ‘brisk’

 

life is performed in-the-round

there is no particular direction you need face

but please effect a giggle just for me & show me

that jaunty smile down the camera lens

as often as forever      in this epoch

crepe pink is so persistent the colour

so non-lemon-like, always solid

soft & gentle

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