slip
intravenous intoxication,
or showering after swallowing
a dream
with the consistency of smoke,
then ending up in the rain
on the side-walk.
rubbing up against a concrete pillow,
a glass bottle blanket
sliding off
and then getting colder
and the wetness getting louder,
the grey getting softer
through glazed, heavy lids.
then falling, or rising
without being lifted,
on fire in certain parts
like the nape of the neck
or the throat
or the temples.
laughing like acting,
squirming in comfort
and drifting inside-out
with anti-momentum
carrying into the ceiling
beyond even the theatre-screen,
or maybe expanding within it,
sailing across or expiring into
a peripheral supernova.
not
ever
landing –
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TF said,
April 9, 2011 at 10:20 pm
This is great, Will. There’s something about the poem’s rhythm.
wordhome said,
April 11, 2011 at 4:42 pm
thanks tristan. wrote this one for uni.