The picnic

Photograph: Dougal Waters/Getty Images

I dispatch our ships in to the high seas of the embroidered plastic table cloths clipped to old tables on their last leg. The dripping water melon juice meets an army of seeds that know no commander in handkerchief. Our affections blind to the boundaries of that no man’s land, travel from the safe lands to the mine fields. My head hangs off of the picnic blanket like a waterfall flowing to a valley of disbelief. The inappropriate smirk on my face beckons the mercy of the bees. My protests forever silenced by your lips. I melt into the high grasses, the underbrush, the mud, the rustling trees tattooing my skin. I exhale and allow myself to get lost in this. Alas, this may at last be bliss.

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Chaos is in you, it folds with every beat of your heart. You find me here and now; But I am already gone to join forces with the enemy of time.

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E. Saglamer

E. Saglamer

Chaos is in you, it folds with every beat of your heart. You find me here and now; But I am already gone to join forces with the enemy of time.

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