Tuesday, August 18, 2009

He distracts me

His hands could be clocks
Ticking away hours

Is this what I want?

Is this what I dream?

What do I dream?

I'm afraid of that, the shadows of my wants.
That hover like the children I've killed in the corner of my vision.
I feel them breathing on me.
I don't look but let the fuzzy shapes hover there
Never taking substance.
Never being.

Like desire
Or passion.
The greater more that's supposed to drive us.

Then there is him.
And I feel pain in the pleasure.
A horror in the want
That something bad is about to happen . . .

Oh, fuck it.
. . . Why not?

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