I have opened up my mouth
and taken out a spare pair
of butterfly wings
(pinched between thumb
and forefinger),
used-to-be-dusty but now
slightly damp from their
place of residence.
I dried them myself,
striking match after match
and holding each underneath,
close,
but not too close.

Instead of drying they
shrivelled up like petals
after leaving the flower.
As if to preserve warmth,
curling inwards,
they shivered, animated
by the heat of the glowing stick.

The flame got too close
to my fingers. I dropped it,
swearing. Pinched the wings too
hard (reflexes), the membrane
broke between my fingers
and the remnants
of freedom fluttered softly
to the ground.

Back in touch with virtual reality,
fingers caress the keyboard
and the screen
(the gentle, intimate touch of lovers),
plugged in the earphones and became
part of the circuit,
electrons zipped into one ear
and were discharged from the other.

Put aside the world for an hour
or two (lost track of time;
it flies when you spend it
with love interests);
drowned self in a smaller /
larger world of blue glowing
screens and perpetual music.
One thousand million songs.
Free. Click. Here. Now.

All you lovely strangers so much
more real than real,
so cool and artistic and how I
wish I could write poetry like you.
How I wish.

Open the door and observe:
the human component of
a full parallel circuit.
Exchange and exchange.
Fixated on a blank screen.
Tapping foot to invisible sound.
Typing faster than would talk.

Close the door.
Walk away.

lettuce forget just for
two hours that we just
met and really you could
be anyone, and lettuce
sustain our teenage
stereotypes, nourish them
with our shared saliva
by the fire -
we are cold and soft
like snow and we are
happy to share our
lizard tongues and lizard brains,
our foolish young
emotions firework in our skulls,
ricocheting against the walls.
sparks.

earlier i watched snow drift down
the chimney,
slowly melt, while ash
was propelled back up
by hot air:
neither sustained for long
in new environments, in foreign
air;
similar up-and-down particles
which i watched while
our hot sweaty hands lay open
like flower petals,
at our sides waiting.
someone had to move
(i did),
petals clasped together and
i noticed the warmth and roughness
of your hands.

i smiled and continued
to watch the flames.

I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).

Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.

Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)

Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.

THE END.

(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)

little man by the bus stop
with his tin organs, all replaced
because his real ones failed him
(jst like he failed his old wfe)
squat top hat and fat wide smile
and he’s almost a cartoon
and he’s almost not a person.

just   hands.   just   skin.  just   tissue.   just  atoms.
just kids. just hormones. just chemicals. just atoms.
just mouths.  just  water.  just elements. just atoms.
just        young.       just     exploring.      just    open.
(justatomsjustified)

you have made your differences.
you have painted your sky blue
(without the undercoat)
you have snuggled up with stars in bed
(knife hidden under the pillow)
and cooed and giggled all cute-like.

now you come home all cold and silver.
you cast me a moon gaze,
nothing more,
and use your words
and your jaunty movements,
like each joint is a mechanical hinge.

i still think you’re beautiful.
no matter how slippery and wet you get
(in the worst and best of ways)
no matter how much your smile stretches
past your teeth and no matter
how many times i want to put my hand
under the pillow. i still think you’re beautiful.

i don’t think you’re perfect
because i have seen your imperfections
the way your dapples fall against the grain
the way you talk and the way your words
are wrong so very often.
but your imperfects make you so much more human,
and so much more beautiful.

if i die tomorrow just know this.
just know that i was sick of your
starlight manipulations and the way you
twisted silver light (all wrong
and reflective).
but despite this, please know
that i very almost fell for you.