28-04-12

A length
counting
spinning blades,
a mispronunciation of polity.
They sit in pastiche
— blasé stoned colours.
A reference to the 90's
white skin
indie scene.
William St.
Blades spinning,
cutting,
to the chase.
Humidity.
Safe passage.
Silence between breaths.
Not outside
or inside
— becoming.
Distant heat as background noise.
Waiting on the cusp.
Trying not to cum.
Or worse,
pretending to have not.
Two.
Sick in bodies,
sucking,
touching.
One.
Absorbing,
scribbled
anxiety.
Awaiting
One more.
Trembling hands
and the black shirts of before.
Seeking.
Revelation.
Exhibition.
The eight sides of a glass
or The Glass.
Four blades spinning,
unable to decipher,
too many to count.
Big words like SEX
and DEATH.
Repetition.
Or enlightenment.
But words
say nothing of this.
Broken commune
with only one purpose,
not guilt,
only money.
Empty stare to brief vacant applause.
The blades spinning.
The rain coming.
Again.