Lines are where it all begins and where all good (bad) things end. They delineate. They divide. They border, they bind, they define. Lines are blurred, stirred, concurred and perturbed by the right questions and wrong answers. Words paint lines in broad bold strokes that encircle, entice, intrude. Words resurrect you. Words nudge aside, limbo underneath, and soar over the lines in our lives.
I love a good word whore. The syntax of their needs is a language I speak in many tongues.
futile finger length concepts
Slip, supple, sap, spilling across the page
dripping sarcasm like lovers
feels like frosted torture against black veins
that spider across the white parchment
we call skin
mediocre maybe –
but I take my lessons from the pen
lap the edge like honey,
and take this line, from behind my innuendo
you can play it like a violin.
or wrap it around your finger, lest you forget
you can wear it like jewelry,
or weave it into a web for unsuspecting honesty
you can hang yourself from it,
or you can wind it about your body like a cocoon
just don’t trip over it on your way out.
because this line
can hold you together