I could never run out of ways to write
the colour of your perfect skin on paper.

The things that captivate their naked eyes
creates a burning in me
glowing and swelling and raging-
a storm
where my outside's the calm
and the centre is where
I am strang'ling your memory.

A milk white transparency.
Fine veins and arteries
raised underneath.
A delicate tissue.
A morsel for men to feast upon.
Veal for the lips of strangers.

And it covers each soft dip of skin,
all ten fingers and toes
one face
so scarless and hairless and smooth.

Creases that line your palm
in all the right places
and mannerisms to go with the luxe
and the glamour that comes with genetics
all crafted so fine

and so sweet

paper eyelids you smear
and cream cheeks you upholster
and small fuzzy ears that you pierce and weigh,
but oh those lantern lids that you cover...
all lit up with laughable anarchy
batting each blackened eyelash
to catch the gazes you so often scorn.

So call me sadistic
and tell me I'm wrong and not charmed like I should be
but yours is a beauty so misplaced by God.

You think that gold and ivory lends you sanctuary.
Never have I longed so much
to see just whether or not a person could bleed
from skin so white.

I'd love to rip a scar
through your successive scenes
and monologues
hypocrisy and so-faux toils.

Let me burn a blade
across that lovely shade of zirconia.

09/20/2004

Posted on 09/21/2004
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