underground sounds, pt. 1
she used to be dotted with little stars, you know.
dotted and crossed.
cut and dried.
deep fried in sunshine and showers
but now wilted, dipped in
melted chocolate
seasoned with flecks of sweet salinity
rolling
don’t look to her eyes or the way she’ll hide from a
glazen glare
(of a glaze or s - t - a - r - e)
she can’t view the way you do
only in reflections we see
a dimmer version of the truth
*************
it’s just a little place to sit a while. i wonder why the carpet-coloured moquette stained from years of use provides such a scramble for them to use. look and stare hard, and in the pixellated 8-bit noise, small nuances begin to appear.
an inflection of swept hair.
a carbon copy of the way your face makes a shape of shadow in the blue halflight.
the light where everything becomes subtle.
as if it were really there. but not. nothing here is real. not like that. it’s not real to touch, but real to dream…
as the concrete hollows rumble past, you look at me, brighter in colour than before. if only you were…
you seem to be knitted into the cushion covers, crawling under the spaces between errant furniture, trapped between hard plastic edges… your thoughts written on the faces of the people i know, and those i don’t. your fingerprints scent the air with uncertainty, chewed up with the dirt of a hundred years’ grime, dust and decomposition.
everyone is slowly rotting.
maybe you passed through here once, in another life, in another world. drawing maps in the air with the steam from your breath in the cold winterly snap as you rise from the earth. from present to past, then here and back again.
please come back.
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