|
stalker, you are with
the sheep skull and
frilly white shorts
compliant to a river breadth
liquid over falls
your steps and waters
fool our pace
this body outer shell is
always walking
vomit in fantasy
now share the viscosity
of glass drinks
and toast
the unspeakable
skin is containing colour
we have seen something so
silent our eyes close close
crowded in on self
traces that leave skin for
the sake of words in order
rocks swallowed gulp water
became river with directions
pace after step after accept
that fragile rape hands
conceal the man
look as the sound
walks back into density and hundreds of only faces.
city standing building faces. distaste is open and
ready to be framed. Wait a moment, who are you to wear
me? Now stand in front. All are sexless when in love.
Hang up with the crossings. Smile, carry on regardless
you little pretty thing you wink and think perfect as.
As cement yes. he is not a pole dancer and we prefer
manual orgasms. choosing entangles lives with
distasteful greyed faces, unsigned and written between
spaces. body traces watch as they fade
Blank the in
died I last at until eyes open wide .with water under
Swam .I bathe the In .turn my replied I ,line overused
An .inside from heart my massage and Elbow .fist-fuck
me to the Up .hide orgasms where places the out Clean
:this heard I .ask to left Nothing .kisses less self
less my tongue my Language .lost it ,down it wrote ,it
lost .sex Having
divine become ,time in ,space in travel To .Wanted
.Dislocated .felt I bed In .the in, the side ,the out
thought slide thin the lost Slice .feel like flesh
ultra rubber expensive most the blend exclusive An
.breasts my offered I .special it felt I but unusual
Not .watched man A
.up woke laughter salted slaughter tasted water wasted
daughter taste of I .happiness of moments brief in
emotion: thought I .sex changing Imagined .by will my
Sent .a great massacre has been There .completely a me
made complete me made I thinking by just beginning the
In.
Frozen
My curves around your body
stand permanent
Corpses watch
on the periphery of our lives
Memories are broken
by words
The absence
of touch is ghost
I can't forget
the taste of your cunt
There is no stabbing the night
©
Hannah Silva 2007
|