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ice-light
I stand, head to toe, in a feeling of platinum insecurity, of a fuzzed-out speaker box of destiny, untranslatable,
from where it all begins, it's a feeling, not unlike something like confusion, or the afterburn of sexual deviance,
like a little kid flipping the radio stations, I feel nothing towards everything, but I confusedly search in earnest,
like a murdered desire, I want to flee to the next planet and take all my stuffed toys with me, solidly relocate,
yet I feel the cold stancheon of bleak eyes, they pummel me, they coerce dynamically, and then, they self-
congratulate their coercion, and the fear feels me leaking, and it sniffs, like a bloodhound, it smells my un-
relenting self-depreciation, and it smells like a fresh kill, it tastes like broken promises, or nothing as real,
like the promise of a promise, a whispered rumor told to a sleeping child in his bed, a planted promise, a
key made of glass and curses molded in the great savoir-faire of deluded sayings on the boulevard of cliches,
or maybe an ice-light on the edge of the world, at sunset, on a cliff of sand, a beacon of dreams, or the place
souls go of whome I've never known, but only read about in the obituaries, this is the maypole of all gilded and
abandoned crests, ended lineages, who not only live in censuses, but in the artificial and painful seance of
blue arc-light, where we turn into angels and ride the bloodways to heaven.
