Sunday, June 27, 2010

white line

I like a messy life
low and dirty
feelings strewn about in abundant disarray,
coloured confusion.
I know not who, where,
why I like it so.
I might have lost myself
never to be found, found out
I could hide in plain view
cover truth with white lies
bodies with imagined bliss
clothes with blinding nakedness
pain with searing pleasure.
The search for clarity is useless.
Only one thing is sure: you
A virus in my dna
my other nature, my counterpoint.
There is a straight white line, simple,
from me to you to me to you
a nerve you thought you had cut off.
You called what we were doing thin.
I dare not contradict
why argue now, with no one in particular.
It isn’t thin at all, though I consider:
Thin is my protective membrane -
fragility shrouded by audacity, a fake.
Thin are your thighs I want to grip.
Thin is my body in your hand.
Thin is the veil you draped your thoughts.
Perhaps one day, before we die
you’ll come about.

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