Brain Storming
D.S. West “Babe,” she tells me, eating green grapes only semi-seductively, as long as we've been at this together. "I wear this imagination of yours like a glove." I imagine her pulling oceans over the knobs of her smooth knuckles, eyebrows sardonic, breaking continents to make snug the wedges between her fingers. The vine isn’t offered, her fruit's hers. I'm only here to see her pulverize with her mouth open, flashing like the original firearm the very tongue that whispered behind the thunder, the perfect mind. What sense is there behind the senses? Her enjoyment is tropical fruit, condensation of æolian pith through diaphanous ocular membrane to the secret projectionist's booth, where homunculi, little teenager or little old man, sleep behind the beam to dream new footage for pre-recorded subliminal audio. “Don't I know it." Attentive, listening for squishes. I write the poem, she changes the reel. Her grapes are fucking delicious, I can tell. |
About the author:
D.S. West is a writer, artist, and determined pedestrian from Boulder, CO. West's poetry has appeared in Crab Fat Magazine and Digital Papercut. His short fiction has appeared in Crack the Spine, Beyond Imagination, and I Don't Belong Here!, an e-book of mediocre short stories he published to Amazon.com to pass the time. |