Thursday, January 12, 2012

Aerosol in the AM

moist with beads
of dewdrop and
dragon's tongue.

Flesh peeled. skinned fine
smooth and worthy of a
private show.

Standing still
Mouth, parched
yet hands bound
inches from the
liquid mask.

The scene is painted in that certain way
where everyone gets the jive
except for the one guy in the corner
yelling, "what's that mean"

Torturous depreciative machines.
Always ink-blotting their way &
when they find it, they distort
the path with 3 x 5 lined cards,
each with individual messages scribbled upon,
With obscure notes such as "nancy" or "Jabba"
obviously looking to get lost
But where?
In what?

Then.  Well then. There are the chameleons.
Shifting lips, eyes, postures.  Tossing about
frost tipped and aerosoled roots.  To find that perfect match
of bicep bulge, eyelash ratio, pouty-ness of puffy lower lip, neck stretched, back arched.  Polarizing figurines of the self.

They get me every time.

1 comment:

  1. LOL this one was harsh but I laughed a bit, just visualing the critics I know that are so anal and uptight that their opinion is always sooo right. Pffft, lost in a cloud of fog, never finding that perfect match, but always clamoring to be heard. Shoot em all, at least in the foot..haha