Kirsten Sinclair

Nougat like lips cherry candy.
Nougat traces blush on existence.
Jolted knees, a glistening mind, an abandoned heart.
Hollows rush, subsume serotonin.
Throbs, nicotine throbs the heavy reluctant pulse.
The smile
lacks, lacking
Authenticity, of
the eyes but a whirlpool of suffocation. Release.
Plum jars of
blemished crimson water, water
stained and speckled with
Droplets formed from the vacancy, vacancy of
Lips cherry candy.
Muddied waters,
Hesitating, resisting at the
crippling isolation of a
Knee jerk, jerking into the duality of
Suffocating, penetrating at the slow release of echoing and bellowing,
Self-disgust at the confining narrative of
Comforted when the pitiful gloom of loneliness becomes paper blank,
wafer thin.
Malleable marzipan,
It’s all very pink.
Heart of two souls, fragmented to the sub-letting of the
White blank walls decorated
with rose freckled nougat. Invariably unhesitatingly.
When lips cherry candy become cracked and chapped and torn and worn and over worked and patch-worked and
as the muttering of figures and re-worked figures and endless calculation of the numbing realisation that it’s more than existence
On a marzipan
Bed of
It’s all very pink.