Reading [January 28th | 27/365]

Tongues cling to square walls with snaking stems.
The ravens and magpies recite borrowed verses to each other.
If the tongues had roots they would find nourishment in the liver.
The birds exclaim: Poetry is sex!
As if orgasms are only a matter of will.
That fucking is pure and clean.
Poetry is words; everything compressed into a few scribbled marks or a set number of sounds.