Explicit Hearts by B.B.P. Hosmillo


    Towards emancipation because that’s a beguiling thought.
    Isn’t it remarkable that the supernatural in us is still human?
    I’ve licked my grassy chest so as to clear it and in a way to think
    that it stores magnificence, and right at its center is a face


    only bonfire that’s seen all the chicaneries of the moon could leave
    as abysmally engraved as that. As diary of a general name to remember
    the passing of slaves or victims or overpowered lunatics discovered
    by the gross of night. I sometimes think that we have the right to be
    clean or to take advantage of our innocence. We came here already


    carrying our urns without knowing those defined jars have been told
    to make us I say. In agreement other urns and other bodies
    make us. Cancer and hepatitis and causes of AIDS and signs of
    aging in isolation best understood as the wake of our vigilance.
    After midnight I wait for a cardiac arrest. You wait to tell me


    we have to wake up together and get married again.
    We then vow at the same time morning pulls a secret bone
    from that which supports our walking and thoughtfulness.
    At dusk I count how many injuries we have laughed at and suffered.
    At dawn you forgive our urns as you remember we are still


    people. The supernatural in us is still human. Even our struggle.
    As you rub my back with the telescope of your chin as though
    to check whether my spine’s complete I’m already welcoming
    another thief that’s beyond my, our capacity. Movements
    to surrender. How gentle you and I have always been


    but have never been viewed in this accord, in this delight.
    Movements this familiar as intimacy and breath and personality.
    Movements without any intent to harm because harm, as we put
    our lives in the tray of morning in inspection, is more of a myth
    than ourselves. Give me that which will put me easily to my urn


    and I’ll ask you where you want to be kissed. Show an undeniable
    conflict if there is anything left. Ask boredom to plot a climax,
    to burn my shoes, or to break the nearest thing which is my nose
    reminding your neck of an animal that was once lost in the woods,
    scented every possible trace that had more possibility than scent,


    and later called the woods its home. Tell me the woods indubitably
    could never be a home and Ill marry you again. Expect me
    walking. I will pull the last secret bone of your incredible
    thoughts then tell myself how great I am to have loved a human.

    - Advertisement -
    - Advertisement -
    - Advertisement -