fruits of vine


Teeth bite off a first morsel,

at its stem.

Slowly the drop like piece

flows inside the mouth,

from cheek to cheek.

No bite is bitten,

until the skin

dissolves or rips.

Then the molars act,

squashing the juices

from the warmed up object.

A next one is sucked in,

separated from the wood,

cut by passing on incisor,

fluidity of freshly sun tanned

sugars mingle with saliva,

from this port of entry.

Left over skin is chewed,

dead it seems,

until the pulp cells

release the last of moisture.

Kernels are grind now,

they produce the bitter flavor,

to balance out on sweetness.

A next one’s fed,

into the abyss of taste,

altar of palpable insatiableness.

Dew of Gods and Goddesses

is what flows behind the lips,

and upon their surface,

as the juices color

the gingiva and alveolar temple,

excess draws blood cells.

The full force of replenishing,

on the ripened fruits of vine.


Deine Paulinchen


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