Member-only story
Not Rock Bottom Yet
Mental borders seemed concrete for a while, while I was brushing the back of my tongue to speak thunder, saltwater than yesterday’s bad breath.
I am currently not bothered by the depths of this phase I Inhale and exhale Sahel wind grains of sand, larger than the capacity of my airways, but I make room and a sofa space for whatever to get stuck now and sing later in a voice of a marathon des sables philosopher.
Oh Elizabeth the Queen English Grammer doesn’t play much, stress on pause to perform but to overcome these nights I turned right and fell on the lucky bastard corner of the room, it wasn’t me.
But my birthright to touch bottom f*ck early and take a late flight on business class with the rest of the sand under my trembling feet.
Smelling like fish, this time or the other, the perfume of my daily choice to be flying carelessly.
What a cliché, pelican contained my poetry in his socket and giggled hysterically out of breath, so I took off his red Trump tie.
