is the name of the game the last two deathmatch hunters play at dawn,
while the pink arc-light rainbow seeps in, unnoticed until it's too late.
I wonder, do you think of me when I'm transfixed in the dark,
dissociated in motionless levitation, dreaming of personal teleportation devices?
I assigned letter sequences deceptively void to haunting cyclone eyes;
haste the polaroids, before the armies of gray march in.
Caress these reflected features with your butterfly wings,
render the rest useless, as obvious to all but the wandering mind.
Whose house harbors some pirate's map to utopia,
whose compass points to the photonic womb?
They stretch for miles indeed, a survey of these silent battlefields reveals.
But your lips are petals of the universe, folds of time nailed still,
our silvery delirium mist bell will shatter the concrete walls of Jericho.
haste the polaroids.
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