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.//
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.//