Saturday, October 10

Ctrl+C - undo - redo: the cycle

Amid chattering brothels,
like a ghaghra mirrorwork, no one
is at home, but everyone lounges
in blouses of lust and ambition;

smoke and rose floats in the air
making the world a forgetful affair,
lined with avenues to traverse, with
paints to peel, stairs to climb;

no one has company, but like
ping-pong, or ions in excitation,
they rise and decay, swaying hips together,
crossing bloodlines, in utter nakedness;

their I is weak, waiting to be picked up
in amsterdam windows; they nudge
all beauty into bitterness, for
when they fuck, no star moves.



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