The decay of (our) slices curdle ~

 

Hurdled in their stifle of mangled human stamps, pressed against a motion in disguise as affection

 

Launching your caterpillar stare, I direct my legs towards deception: I understand how electronically we work these days

 

 Lunging into performance whilst obscured from actual display

 

My roof scrapes heavy as a dangled jaw, violently entering the damask of summer romances buttery stale expectations into the disappointment of mortality

 

I’m not another girl that moves like London, bending my giggles into fashionable nests knitted by corporations.

 

I’m not another girl that creeps into the frozen pool of loves forgery, binding my cries to Saturday night.

 

Upon windowsill lit entirely by darkness the steps slither into something steeper than hopes rotten child

 

Above the pavements attached as swings to the city, where the shoes of dead feet pound up the deafening days, until hours are reduced to the sludge of a loneliness that neither hangs openly as despair nor marks the error of modern politics

 

 

Hammers glide into my fingers, draping at my imagination as though lead by spears to ink out the rage that tightens my stomach into crumpled papers in foreign offices.

 

What I long for doesn’t glisten...