Why this world can’t be just bits and digits

Everyday is honey be that of lemon or dew. Everyday is juice of creation and love. I want to mix fluids with you.

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Aku, cinta banget puisi that I want to crush it in my palm crush it a brown stiff autumn leaf crush it a moth to fragments fine as fish food I want to eat it chew it as cannibals chew their own swallow it the glowing egg inside the snake’s stomach feel it here is the secret in your wrist is a seed that pulses ow your brain is clogged its seed roasting in the sun up it flies and down into my intestines so the lord mumbles and rumbles

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Instead of ‘fruit’, that hard little knob of a
noun, ‘furuits’ is squashable. With its three vowels so closely packed,
it’s as awkwardly sensuous as trying to speak with one’s mouth full.
Meanwhile, instead of ‘ripeness’, ‘sweeness’ gets onto the page, so
syrupy, it has dissolved even the t, that letter that usually controls the
middle of the word. The fruit in Keats’s mind has grown so ripely soft,
there is nothing hard inside.
(“Show me what you just did”, Thinking in Four Dimensions.  Robin Grove.)