from Becoming

By | 1 March 2015

[DISTANCING, objects]

…the sky unrelenting at an impasse.
The sun moved inside of her & died.
It seemed every object was a vehicle
for great tempests of rhetoric & sound.
Every second dug into her.
Plates of skin unfolded.
Faces dissolved in rage colour.
Dim clutchings at semantics would scatter.
A knife expanded with a flick of tongue.
Heart’s-ease unceasing.
The gap in the muscles goes, ‘POP’.
Sipping the ocean’s bowl complicates each manoeuvre.
I feel sure the syntax is rusting out of use.
Minutes of recalibration wink anonymous tower essences.
Time is over a barrel.
The fish inside appear silent, but are shouting
To fortify their solitude with war.
A motivator drawing its finger across the lens.
How do you know where the sky starts.
Perhaps it is touching your skin.

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