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
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