MAKING (NON)SENSE

This is my gift to you:

Words with(out) sense, without order, left-overs fallen, randomly, from my mouth.

I tried to taste them before spiting them out. They taste plastic and rubbery, sweet and bitter. I am wondering if you have tasted yours.

Moan. Mother. Moment.

Our voice will be heard.

Words mixed with my saliva,

mixed with juicy bits of

beetroots,

I devoured.

Beet. Root.

Beat. Moot.

All I see is red.

..and in the meantime, I recall the echo of your loudly silent words you spit that summer-day. Do you remember their taste?

Those words had grown roots; be(a)roots, which now they are, finally, becoming masticated beetroots;

and now they are, finally, becoming the answer to you:

thousand get is winter let and then over

delicate from you

fluff leg mist dress did

music beauty sweet urge purple of

above peach

ing bed crush ache manipulate black this

& my whisper chant dream spring friend

will need lather sun picture sing

delirious

And now you can make your own (non)sense...

'cause your words can't hurt me anymore.

Cheers!