lord of the peregrines, who wander about, as free labourers, without much identity,

much like the free labourer in this city, who chances, upon a caress, or simple work,

where would that all lead, since it is fiery hot, drifts, too slight, that stuff that affects feet, called,

more of them are affected by it

that makes it

but a warm injection though

my thumb is too big to stick into my nostril

and even if

I have to wash

this would be pleasant due to the fragments of old paint and cedar

that have touched me unto this day of deliberation

of renovations and curbing

the body is a tent which shelters the soul

Jer, my inner self is the impatient one...not sure about my outer self, you'd have to ask other people...they see it more often...

pelt

I loved you
but you came
smoke wreathed
reeking of animal flesh

in the mirror
of my non perfection
I listed my faults
like a litany

reminded myself
the hardened lava
of your cold sarcasm
carried a hot core

still
the smell rose
to the flood marker
and memories spilled

a capricorn misogynist
whose pores oozed lard
and disdain for vegetables

you were not him
but my nose
and my instinct
would not let go of it

a capricorn misogynist
whose pores oozed lard
and disdain for vegetables

you were not him
but my nose
and my instinct
would not let go of it

my olfactory memories are very, very strong...perhaps that is because my hearing is impaired...