BOTANICA
8.16.20
monkshood
you know the one
the blue bells – a blue so violent your eyesight can be abruptly dislodged by a twitch of embarrassment
looking away, as if too look so directly into the origin of so much pigment
might violate intimacy sacred even to an unrefined pride
you smell of butterscotch
or is it that caramel iris of yours?
i digress,
monkshood knows what it must feel like
a rustling of scarabs in mummy wrappings
as we pretend to
assume our historic roles (mine at least) as enchanters,
soul feeders, sacred pimps, and alchemists
ive decided, the universe does not have laws
it has habits
and habits can be broken