Sex tastes like jelly slime
Coffee grinds, sweeter times
Tomato paste. tomato lime
Low, tender reminder
Sometimes the presence of space is the
Absence of time.
Sometimes there’s no profuse meaning in rhyme.
Sometimes the chicken just needs a little bit more thyme.
May babies lay in bed, interlaced, entangled in the wonderment of birth in death
In passion in
Tiny rose tinted breaths
Of what you read and what you have read.
None will express the significance of your bed
To a heathen, scarred lover
Smelling of minced garlic, burnt leather
Liberate the uncertainty
You carry with a grim, reluctant wave of
Viper bitter
Venom coating the iris of your visual
Olfactory, like
Sour, dry ginger drawled voice with a hint of tequila,
What does it mean?
Is it even relevant?
Systematic apathy
Under the nails,
Staining, symbolic
Soft vocal timber.
You are an avalanche
And my arm position is the passionate snapping,
Triggering your release,
How holding back has clouded
My morally glazed, revisionary vision
A nearly significant tier,
Closer to empathetic logic
Than the conformational biased propaganda you spout.
Clearly there’s no bias
Edge of a ladder, I would rather
Love and love than love and leave.
Take this palm, please don’t use teeth.
If you like Casey’s poetry, be sure to check back every Wednesday for new poems from local poets! Also, take a look at our recent piece on the rising women poets of New Orleans!
Casey has been writing for a decade. When she’s not writing she can be found slinging coffee in Uptown.
