I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
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