5 Jan 2011
keep sliding, brother.
keep on and with it.
every star stabbing a tender keyhole
into our blanket.
loose tongue tangle and lashing
together some beast
of urban reply.
at least a machine humming
softly in a warm corner..
waiting..
calling for touch, but
knowing no sensation.
set it all on fire anyway, brother.
burn those paper voices.
paint your face with ash.
smile at the cinders.
and be transformed.
Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016
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