Nostr Web Client

Replying to

fleur

identified because you carried the original

in your saddle bag, i, always there,

you believed i somehow became

when you noticed. yet i dwelt here digesting

in the stomachs of deer, bear, and medicine women -

since the dawn of time.

but now i have a name, they harvest me,

for a price - and though my purpose diverges

from my cousin, valuable get

the merchants sling me as an alternative,

competitive market, they coo.

and yes your heart races because my properties

make your blood run hot, not clear.

the profiteer versus the healer:

i hope you die, trapper. have some more.

i am here rooting. for you, my love: lick it clean.

ⴲ.

fleur 7mo ago

they warn everyone about me

in the trade commissions, the medical

establishment. you, my templar, my tempest,

skeptical of the rich men topping

evidence you witness yourself,

giants carrying girls to the stars -

to live like a flame instead of ashes, acrid.

"there is no evidence" in "science"

they suit and tie, yet an empire built on digging

roots for the hurricanes

apothecaries, grandmothers, herbalists;

living into biblical ages.

garden hands, you could fight the masses,

but when you believe your own eyes

my inflated price disappears.

for you: i am free because you are fair.

live, my love. burn.

ⴲ.

Reply to this note

Please Login to reply.

Discussion

fleur 7mo ago

nothing in particular.

she displays no traits which explain

the health impacts of slurping her up,

like royal jelly, you drown between the thighs

like tubers reaching through the soil

to china.

like me without you. i am just doll.

when you take me in, we metabolise

and suddenly, the alchemy of digestion

magically surges through your veins,

neurone, nerve of you to not let me

race up your spine. like a series of locks, clicking

one vertebrae at a time,

i pump your blood, sweeping your heart for me.

sacrum to skull, like a lightbulb

you remember me.

let me walk in, i will show you.

i am nothing in particular,

unless you want to wake up your gut.

ⴲ.

fleur 7mo ago

cook me. boil. oil rubbed on my unwieldy

legs, wrapped around you, slippery

with your sweat, panting in my ear,

talk me through the recipe, bite my shoulder

while i cut out the bullet, lodged in ribbed

chest, can you identify me, by the surge

in your blood, while rushing though

tissues. i raise you to a simmer, grip tighter

the congested life i cast away,

from the selection over the counter.

slide around my dictation,

salty, my tongue tingles at the smack

salty, my hands wet with your seed,

salty, like the ocean we roll, waves

crashing over and over.

cardio for your vascular system. ancient magic.

ⴲ.

fleur 7mo ago

alone, the masculine use esoteric information to gain power; the feminine use it to heal the body. the hermit (magician) and the crone (high priestess). together as a team, they create healthy, prosperous communities by building with one another to develop those individuated practices into shared environmental abundance. the emperor and empress, realized.

🌱

fleur 7mo ago

coconut oil, slicked down

my legs in your lap, floppy sun hat, a dress

resembling those 1970s knitted hanging pot

holders.

reading a magazine, about bulbs.

barely glancing as you tell me about the day,

wiggling my toes so you rub my feet

while you lecture me.

staring at the empty spaces in the flower bed,

briefly thinking about our dark bedroom tonight,

and considering which color of wisteria

matches the munstead lavender mostest.

and you reach your climactic point -

about whatever it was and i smile sweetly,

lean over and kiss you,

and say "you are wonderful, dear".

and you, pleased with yourself,

nod triumphant, and begin sketching something new.

ⴲ.

fleur 6mo ago

in every lifetime, i have found them again,

in case i have the opportunity to show you,

in my hands outstretched,

i remember. i still

carry the memory for us until i might carry

the trinkets,

then your fingers interlaced in mine,

if you have forgotten:

i will remind you.

cast like a pair of dice, you and i.

set to be snake eyes staring

at those who seek to defy our choices.

the air like orange blossoms this morning

and i think i will write you

a poem. on the wall.

maybe in a thousand years,

someone will see it and wonder how

they loved so wildly.

and once again, i will find some small animals

cast in brass. because gold is now precious.

and we were real.

ⴲ.