he’s up to his nose in lace
as he races to the rush
to the place where he tastes
his living skin
where his head spins
and he keys in feverishly
a furious code
the call of his genes
in a space of his own
his diversionary stage
bathed in a lonely light
tasting intensely
the feeling of fame
in concentrated seconds
the oncoming burst
first burning in the head
where the bones explode
and bleed through the face
flushed by blood
then shaking in spasms
closing the chasm of fear
covered in mud
he melts into the cloth
and he feels botched
in a bundle lump
sleeping to escape
‘til he can grip
and tear the lace again

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


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