Untitled

Well and here we are. You sway
with a beat I cannot quite
catch and I am horn rimmed and black socks and
tennis shoes

 

And I cover myself in the symbols, in the warp and
woof of a simpler space. An escape, a
hideaway in two dimensions.

 

Dirt, dirty, grime and rot
you are the smell and the taste, ripe and overripe and
bursting, you are the touch and the waist and the grind and the sweat, and I
I hate you because I cannot give
in to you; because I cannot sink my
toes into you; because I am
ephemeral.

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