Sunday, October 7, 2012

Raw Footage


The thing unspooled distinctly like an id
Escaped from penitential realms of pain;
I gasped in horror at its simple spire
And doodled tracings on a distant bag.
Revengers looked upon us from on high,
Astounded by the tapping all around,
As forty naked virgins surfed the clouds
And haystacks danced upon the raging tide.
As quickly as a smokescreen fades to grey
You synced the times at angles often missed
By trackers hidden in genetic jails
With crystal locks still rented by the day.
Back on our balcony just after sunrise,
Drinking Proustinis and playing at nothing.