To spew lusciously, words
spreading unhindered from
rosy lips. Vowels, their sounds
like violins, graceful and moving,
and consonants, strong, as oak
trees during a writhing grey
tempest. Paper, clasped in my
lips, is undecided and
reluctant. To dance or not
to dance? But gladly, I
spew, and creations become
soft fetuses and small pink
ideas. Like a pearl sewn
among a cradle of red velvet,
they burgeon, as do pale moist
mushrooms on a
morning of white spring. Yellow
wine laps against the walls
of my chalice, and my naked
body reclines in a great
cathedral with a roof of
stained glass through which
the sun pours in ruby diamonds
and blue squares. Oh, to spew.
To be a dock of mahogany and
gold, a keeper of time and
days. To be an hourglass of
crystal and grain, to spin in
a sea of salt and recollection,
where the world's records are
kept in a grotto of sapphire and
white stones, where even the
greatest granite is shunned. I
spew. I spew castles and
deserts and chalky
jungles and almonds fall from
carefully stylized fingertips
to crash on many floors. I
spew, and I craft so many
things. I fill the emerald
lawns of my cathedral and
bathe in a field of coriander
and snow until my skin turns
blue. Poppies coat my body in
paint and during the ban of
consciousness, dreams and
different worlds steal me
away to wonder and gloria.