moist with beads
of dewdrop and
Flesh peeled. skinned fine
smooth and worthy of a
yet hands bound
inches from the
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
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.