{{store.chapterTitle}} poetry {{ store.downloadLinks.length === 1 ? 'card' : 'cards' }}
Card {{ index + 1 }}Chapters
Scroll to top
search
Lisa of BLACKPINK
In my feelings
I'm a sex-kitten weaning
a grown man’s hairpin
an emotional bearing
with a face to carry.
Photographs as affected caves
eyes mentioning hue and praise
what would, sheen known to haze
pupils wittering the burning butane
all the time missing why I first came.
Sincerity is a rapport that burst
the steams rallied off blurred
with my tongue scorched
for I'd spoken of love
as we sock hopped.
When it's the cost for a leg
I'll take an arm for its strength
fight it out where my pen-is felt
so please relieve all my sayings
like arm wrestlers use their stairs
his mind's thrust coming from apex
as they're better round holes — a peg
it's a pleasure, you don't fit them in bins.
That path leads to a parley
but the blunt was smitten
about path of lavish quill
a blonde smitten kitten
foxtrot — said her lips
her lady ribs as reeds
eliding his unhappy
erasing the sappy
she'd climb hills
to see wherein
he buds, feels.
Dire, the rise of the tide I recount
desire, the bites of a mind's hound
scintilla, the smell troubling pronouns
zee, the visit receipt where you astound.
Gobs filled the field
that I could hardly feel
the plants rose like yeast
withered replaced, in season
she flew in with the sunlight east
the prime of my life with lips of dew.
Servitude fiercesome like celibacy
stringently across beads of efficacy
weeping hurt, picking odd delicacies
Bridget — still a man's house’s lunacy
her funeral so long, drudgery off mercy.
She worshipped false gods
wishing impossible miracles
a border heart, her string clung
his whispers, fret patted, burgled
sextant amiss, echoes to seafloors
she was his tune, cuddling chronicle.
She's his son's repertoire
his dolly blue’s au revoir
a well polished doodah
all of a boy's oeuvre.
Shrapnel with the bent edge
you promised me the net
weekends with my silly pets
not miss any of what's silent
how’s it your cut is behind desks?
You shape me as you want
as if my true feelings worn
you bring back their rote
reminding me of the ol’
but asking, if my love
waking to the grutch
the missing ol’ hold
of my soul’s prose
that one tomato.
Your lips are the stars
slipping me into hi-hats
breath pulling moi apart
loftily to set foot on Mars
drawing off into dry crash
a sweetened pageant plan
I show off my door’s keypad
for as your tegument lips rang
I knew my cymbals, you'd bang.
She's beautiful by her creations, and she's beautiful sidelong with a residual of the magic she's dropped in the world. So it goes that I remember her more beautiful than the last time.
West to West Collection X is an imagination of Lisa as someone else, maybe a favourite red-dot target. It's a detailed link between all the art she's made and how I see it in my bottle of clear water. So on my table before a drink, though well-meaning, I offend everyone by this seltzer.
I'd love to thank my team for not letting go of the poor boy from Forest Collection I. And to the readers, let's fall in love with meaning by loving ourselves in relation to one another.
Thank you for another X.
