most of his time being spent indoors his skin was butter
spread thinly upon an artist's rendering a basemenr
statue of lightless beauty. he spoke greasily and waxed
nervous and occasionally slipped out of sight re-emerge
sizzled and ultraviolet with hair overlaid in syrup gold.
the city toasted him an alien son rolled and battered he
emptied a glass once again. the hot breath of may the
blunt and stupid terrible teeth. he is nothing if not
glass taped down and packed in styrofoam too fragile
for the inner city sidewalks...
(i am deflated not by your words but by your lack of them. you succeed in failing to harden my resolve. you succeed in failing to engender my hatred. you wield the doctor's laser and you shrink me down and i can only meet your shoes. this spot i thought was safe. this place i keep forgetting isn't my own. i will pay for the sins of my fathers. i will deserve the hot breath of the inner city. i will gradually come to the realization that i am nothing more than glass taped down and packaged in styrofoam too fragile for these streets that need repairing.)
...in need of repair and so hot as to poach an egg
today. the sperm that he has already spilled the smell
and the sheen of his butter brow the white wax candle
that melts upon contact and drips from an embarassed
smile. words become flavourless morsels either hot or
cold harm or bring no help at all.