russian

Лондон

fill my head, my sweating hands, with words, words, words –
pleasure me with syntax,
spit what you’ve harvested,
like a mother bird,
into my mouth to nourish me.

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About scribblelip

walking down the road with a book of conjugations in my hand.
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One Response to russian

  1. Carlo D'Ambrosi says:

    Very good little poem. A nice mixture of Emily and W.C.W. And you know I love the short ones.

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