Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Faces of Strangers

Each line about strangers jars me,
hardly softer than a crash,
a traffic smash.

I feel I steal something about them,
pin their struggling wings against my board
of collared soliloquy and practice
words in acid on their backs

sloughing bloody layers off.

I steal their faces, limbs
and thin them, smooth them out
and tweak their features for
my textual collection.

Bad fetishist, word and rhythm rapist
I take and take and for their labour give

bastardisation
unpaid anonymity.

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