There was a hanging breast in my sleep,
pointing right at my brown pupil.
lavender marks all over it.
I wanted to touch it, I wanted to be in it’s shadow but I couldn’t…
I don’t know if it’s from my brown fallen women or my cornered mother,
it was not arousing…it was not shedded from the darkest satisfactions…
It was benevolent in bonafide upliftment.
I guess I have always tried to find women in Independence and having opinions like flamed forests…
but all these years I have changed them…I have travelled from one address to another,
and visualization had to break the barrier of dreams once.
Now it’s time. I am feeling the weight of those stormy breasts on my weak ribcages…
All I want now is a death without the possibilities of manipulating sex.

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Photograph: Edward Olive.