6d
~
Where there used to be trees,
but is now a causeway
under the Lord's nose,
reside a constant tourist and his wife
who have all they ever wanted,
light and lure.
They swim in a pool
on the dangling homestar,
overlooking metal decay,
she pinches his cheek,
he smacks her bottom,
summer in Gotham
is now upon them,
gifting different things:
he sees mystery lights endeavor,
she sees herself a dragonfly
on the lure.
Monday thru Friday
they like to ride
the elevator of their love,
up and down it goes along a focal point,
out of him and into her,
when the door closes
they come together,
when the door opens
it lets in the tide of loneliness
and they begin to push buttons.
They dislike home
and its constant secrets,
what she wears is for him,
but less is more,
he invades her often,
but she's become a empty field,
theirs is Neptune's bedroom,
if they don't find
a reason to make love,
they will stay up all night
until irritable frozen creatures.
Invictus interruptus,
with the luck of the draw
they play dangerous days:
a game of blindfolds
and snowmobiles,
a game of hammers
and nails.
The plane of their lust
hunts the morning light
on gloomy Sunday,
the rain wets their hair,
the sidewalk creates a song:
electric skylark,
they dance out of focus,
he grasps her hips,
she makes a beautiful sound,
caught by magic,
trapped by photographic memory
and numbered doors.
Light and lure.
All anomalies.
Sublimation will not return
until the day of the focal point,
in the city where they have
all they ever wanted,
yet here they have nothing
more than microcosm,
the rest is distraction.
Maybe they should
remain a constant.
Maybe he should
just hold her.
Maybe she should
just let herself be held.
~
Where there used to be trees,
but is now a causeway
under the Lord's nose,
reside a constant tourist and his wife
who have all they ever wanted,
light and lure.
They swim in a pool
on the dangling homestar,
overlooking metal decay,
she pinches his cheek,
he smacks her bottom,
summer in Gotham
is now upon them,
gifting different things:
he sees mystery lights endeavor,
she sees herself a dragonfly
on the lure.
Monday thru Friday
they like to ride
the elevator of their love,
up and down it goes along a focal point,
out of him and into her,
when the door closes
they come together,
when the door opens
it lets in the tide of loneliness
and they begin to push buttons.
They dislike home
and its constant secrets,
what she wears is for him,
but less is more,
he invades her often,
but she's become a empty field,
theirs is Neptune's bedroom,
if they don't find
a reason to make love,
they will stay up all night
until irritable frozen creatures.
Invictus interruptus,
with the luck of the draw
they play dangerous days:
a game of blindfolds
and snowmobiles,
a game of hammers
and nails.
The plane of their lust
hunts the morning light
on gloomy Sunday,
the rain wets their hair,
the sidewalk creates a song:
electric skylark,
they dance out of focus,
he grasps her hips,
she makes a beautiful sound,
caught by magic,
trapped by photographic memory
and numbered doors.
Light and lure.
All anomalies.
Sublimation will not return
until the day of the focal point,
in the city where they have
all they ever wanted,
yet here they have nothing
more than microcosm,
the rest is distraction.
Maybe they should
remain a constant.
Maybe he should
just hold her.
Maybe she should
just let herself be held.
~
