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.