Empty starvation waves the shade away
as machines undo the thrills that adorn
the yellowless blouse in her rib cage.
Keys choke under the fabrication of
semi erotic screens, bleeding umbrella tears,
yet rotting in the pitch, drinking distortion,
yet stitching themselves to cum stains.
You, he, she, we, they - what?
Young girl in grey. Bitch. Lover.
An unpretentious coward, who's eyes are houses.
Fill up those negro fingers that rape the light,
fore they know the calligraphy in that sack,
they know the hate
they know the sense
they know the attention seeker
they know the beat
they know the now
they know the time grey clouds snore.
Puppet strings will ignite.