flurries

words form in a flurry bleeding saccharine too too much all the crushed kaleidoscope colours signature pastels and sparkling vibrants, a tenderfoot cherry, with little of life yet to go by, still art, that one is full to the brim with stitched up wisdom, bleeds like watercolours across canvas melting messy hearts like chocolate, la Ingénue’s cup overfloweth with abortions of sugary poésies plumbed ripe and read, dripping black currents legs wrapped around broomsticks of diamonds Candide Diderot. ‘24