Sleeping With The DictionaryAlexis Orgera
I tell you what. It’s never the definition that makes its home in your underwear. Nine times a man rides up to the house. Nine times he’s turned into a crow for being obscure. Red handed he’s defined. Then again, this is the definition of dissent. You have a hole to dig. Your whole melts like the pencil sketch of a hole over a candle’s musketeer. Canopy: Verb. To redeem the memory of skin by knitting a forest’s worth of fingers around the heart. Compilation: Noun. The place where wrongs are filtered and shelved like the idea of order on an island you’ve seldom seen but floods with rum- flavored lips and pelican-shredded T-shirts in your dreams. Who said definitions don’t matter? Dictionary begs to differ. Duh. He who never stays long on the same word, amending his meaning with every sweet-talking street vendor’s hand on his boxy ass. It’d be a shame to find handfuls of old words sewed into sweaty sheets. The alphabet suddenly suddenly slow and slipping, suddenly the outline of an angel sliding its fingers onto my breast’s modest definition.
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