N.o E.scape S.urvives a B.utterfly

By | 2 February 2001

The crescendo of everyday sophistry
Preserves a pseudonym of facial temperament
Like the sea growing dark in our eyes
To the Black Sea
Like our naked bodies cutting the railways
To death

We never saw
The badges of our clothing as a mismatch
The triumph that has been given away

Now it is the moment
The moment of the hard places that we must travel
And of the fake services rendered to relax
We close our eyes in Victorian dream bars
Soot calls of foreign names echo in our memories

Like a butterfly carved down to my skin
I Hitch my dreams

Prostitutes with many names
Prescribes a monogamous medicine
Screaming “What are ya?”

Drifting into a meaningless act
I hold a magnifier onto my arms
To its design
A butterfly burned down to my skin
I scrape it free into air

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