Saturday, February 12, 2011


How purple is your heart
how tender are you
how bruised
and who
has done the abusing

I am as obviously violet as I've invited anyone to infer
from the haze in my lungs
to my yarn ball locks
I'm living
I'm healing
I'm giving
I'm indigoing

My skin is sensitive like me,
to tickles and touches
to fondness and fuckery
but this poor purple hearts been placed
in hands as fuzzy
as my day time wonder-ponder-wanders

I'm in love with his radiation
with his air, his brain, his skin, his sex, his laugh, his touch, his spirit
and face.
His hansom body and face.
His deliberate and sincere manner has me transfixed
my world is more than rosy
it is as electrically pink as the sunsets we've imagined
onto the wall and windows
and other worlds

all these pretty perfects points,
and the addition of his purely honest love
have cumulated to a sum
greater than awe
something more equal to Borealis in august
when the sun still forgets what it should be doing and when
and my whole day
and night and life
are just colourful