Brenda Iijima – Periodical

Brenda Iijima


The rare
other. A title
smolder. I see
you staunchly.
This adds to the
address. Snow’s
sense, a boon to
know you. Known
you stripped down
to a core for who you are.
Through this room
where you stand nude.
Finite in its most
suggestive sense. Beside
you to slick back black
mane. Skeletal, of death,
a headstrong mammalian
pallor. Wrestling torpor,
our hour slips against flesh.
Occasional skull the pulmonary
drumbeat, Francis Bacon, floats
out the pleasure of know all oblivion,
a total flourish love is.

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