I have met a stranger
hanging from the point of nothing
where no wretched parochial fashion
disembowels,
no fellated Pop,
the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite –
no,
the dilation of his eyes
met me on a disc of white -
the hands of mine
spinning the entire weight,
hurtling from a place
of uncontrolled proportions
of nothingness
and patience.
I fear this place
of limitation –
it survives on an originality
slowly disappearing from grace.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
I have met a stranger
hanging from the point of nothing
where no wretched parochial fashion
disembowels,
no fellated Pop,
the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite –
no,
the dilation of his eyes
met me on a disc of white -
the hands of mine
spinning the entire weight,
hurtling from a place
of uncontrolled proportions
of nothingness
and patience.
I fear this place
of limitation –
it survives on an originality
slowly disappearing from grace.
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