A red whorl of skittery, glittering voltage;
a wild silver undulant wobble silking
through air. Her eyes move
like wild ponies, tremble like salt shakers
on a thunder rumbled table.
She is a fever raging in that raw nerve
between Light and the bone.
I think her feelings
are as nude as skinned grapes.
How does she survive?

She is flat in an oven
basting in butter.
She rolls her skin over.
She is eating flies.


About Blake Steele

I am a poet, writer, workshop leader, recording artist... half monk, half pirate, passionate for Life and Love to triumph in the world. I'm American by birth, but am living in Sweden for a while: writing, growing, deepening with amazing, open-hearted people, as well as developing Wild Words Creative Writing Classes and Wild Souls Workshops around the world.
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