Jennifer Hollie Bowles lives in a state of self-actualized entropy. Quite comfortable with the mania of her
animus tongue, she loves projecting honey and fire onto unsuspecting readers. Her writing has been
accepted for publication in Word Riot, Literary Chaos, Oak Bend Review, The Ampersand, Zygote in my Coffee,
tinfoildresses, and Identity Theory, among others. Jennifer often stands on her head waiting for a publisher to
accept her recently completed novel "Surreal Self".
animus tongue, she loves projecting honey and fire onto unsuspecting readers. Her writing has been
accepted for publication in Word Riot, Literary Chaos, Oak Bend Review, The Ampersand, Zygote in my Coffee,
tinfoildresses, and Identity Theory, among others. Jennifer often stands on her head waiting for a publisher to
accept her recently completed novel "Surreal Self".
Jennifer Hollie Bowles
Supper
I wanted to eat the wall or a good
chair, five hours -- years, seconds,
somewhere between sky and sight,
anything but names. Fingertips,
pores: see. Purple tasted like his shirt
with my perfume. His smell sounded
like my laugh with his age.
Perceptions, like batteries -- crazy
enough to commit a passionate act:
He set the table with space for thighs,
impinging the curves of my spoons.
Pressed by the gravity of his manhood,
I chewed his ear in defiance, the licorice
salt covering my tongue with beads.
Curved chest, piquant pelvis -- every
part of him called for taste and squeeze.
On the slick wood, he fed
me his brew, promenade with pain
from the length and girth, a forced-
fit with screams, and his whisper:
"He's been waiting for you."
I wanted to eat the wall or a good
chair, five hours -- years, seconds,
somewhere between sky and sight,
anything but names. Fingertips,
pores: see. Purple tasted like his shirt
with my perfume. His smell sounded
like my laugh with his age.
Perceptions, like batteries -- crazy
enough to commit a passionate act:
He set the table with space for thighs,
impinging the curves of my spoons.
Pressed by the gravity of his manhood,
I chewed his ear in defiance, the licorice
salt covering my tongue with beads.
Curved chest, piquant pelvis -- every
part of him called for taste and squeeze.
On the slick wood, he fed
me his brew, promenade with pain
from the length and girth, a forced-
fit with screams, and his whisper:
"He's been waiting for you."