we're effete, incomplete
stuff ourselves with reasons to excrete
self control, on a plate
life is something to regurgitate

they smile ashes as we come crawling
through the acid rain of attention falling
on our flesh, the tissue of premonition
throwing up the trauma of recognition
yet we survive

we don't laugh, sing or dance
we retreat from contact in advance
we are small - so discreet
don't get under those superior feet

they despair when we dare to venture
in the third dimension, a silent censure
veiled by cool behaviour, the consummation
of acquired emotional constipation
yet they thrive

we embrace our fear
in a ritual to disappear
we are pale, bleached by sorrow
life is wasted on the time we borrow

they take refuge in grand delusion
playing superhuman to our confusion
while these four grey lobes of emancipation
generate the hunger for emaciation
we desire

we don't breed or go to seed
petrified that someday we might bleed
so we shrive, turn to stone
make a meal of living on our own

they are vacant but in possession
of themselves, a paper-thin first impression
wrapping empty gifts for a celebration
of domestic blistered triangulation
how they aspire

we are steel, framed in glass
role-reversal in a tragic farce
we are scarred, self-confessed
too ashamed to leave our wounds undressed

arts--they come prepared

bend
the two of us need lack no more

03/10/2005

Posted on 03/10/2005
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom