Qantas Lounge Tongue 

//     Childish         playground         of dumb dry-plaster thoughts with blind fumbling fibres.
The cute and         barely tolerable language of proximity    like watching an ecliptic solar flare in darkness,      with      quick-witness quietness of     self that doesn’t normally speak in such a tongue.  A new language made for compressed air.      Cabin pressure language, Himalayan headiness of shivered    heart-flutters.
The surprise is the       sincerity of the pour.
Tight-throated     and   unfiltered   need to speak as ears of the same
mouth hear the words in   disbelief.
All words wishing to reach out with    verbal hands     and encircle the bones that sustain your structure.
Romanticism is the last logs of Medusa’s Raft with    the white flag
flickering close to exhaustion.
This romanticism will fetch gravestones for    wooden ships lost to sea,
their storm-ruined detritus floating to make islands of lost things in the missing
parts
of the
ocean.
On there lies         a playground.
One of hunger:      for words and a mortal love, a timed-love.
Said and spoken, gestured and implied - the distance to reach you is the distance between my hand    and  the                sun.
Down the coast I open my arms and let the sun shine through the freckle-holes in my skin,
hoping    to        preserve              it’s intimate proximity.//



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