Dark midnight streets
Caught in a firestorm
In the middle of the day.
Gliding parachutes in fearful rays;
Colors falling from the sky
That retreated from the sun
That burned them to shreds.
Eighteen blue threads in mix-matched
And unforgiving reds. The loudmouth
Without vocal cords, but a terrifying
And thrusting body. Covered yourself
The sun is on the run. Twist and shove.
Scratch and rip but remain quiet
Or you’ll become to sun’s second wind.
It’s hands hurt you. They push against you
And inside you a knife tears out
Your womanhood and leaves you full.
Whisper the sun a plead, a fight
Of your tipsy army leaning in the wrong direction.
Just lay where you are the soon it will be over.
Soon is a thousand mile race while balancing
Champagne glasses on your head. From this
You’ll be a pro at standing still. Your body