Brittle pages, ideas tossed along the wayside.
Bay side bossoms, Beaches and Bette Midlers
F-rated winds. Ripped magazine articles littered through abandoned streets. Young minded men sneaking peaks from National Geographic physiques. African antiques, charcoal skin ~her eyes~ poignantly burning within, pot bellied babies, flies-kamikaze, blackness displayed in a circus parade, odd to see such darkness on a glossy page, the whiteness of their eyes resonates of a frequency making it viable for spirit to be one with the soil of this land. Drums, Balafons and shakers, the dirt from underneath dancing feet come alive with dust as if the images were conjoined to my heart before an ancestral ritual. Heart beats like a wildebeest crossing a crocodile infested river. Eyes and airway open, with this sacrifice I was hoping to atone for having ever been addicted to how my thoughts turn pornographic whenever night meets nudity, falsified words that bear so much truth, I undoubtedly touch myself until self is induced, blown through litter streets and gnashing teeth, I survive and come alive on the other side. Brittle pages with Bette Midler and Judy Garland advertisements. I dream of home. My story, lost within stuck pages.
Copyright © TS Lewis