Brillo eyes, I feel you looking, you crawl me, you cruise me, there are
sandstorms forming in the wasteland
shaped like big cuddly plush toys
and I hear them with my ear to your shell, groaning
like teenagers at a PTA meeting.
Glances measure the walls the floor the security camera coverage,
casing the joint as it passes lips to lip, mute twinkles
of significance to come
in the dark
by the fire
far from hell,
I see nothing.
Armored vehicles lengthen the lash line to infinity,
grabbing gradients and blending deftly into metaphysics,
that horrid hole where something chewed through a foot of concrete to escape
is something of an eyepatch for that house face
Shot dead at Lenscrafters, see it all
and empty out
that a blurry ski-mask could fail to take it all in, like
someone is watching me, like
pink eye in the eyes
in the back of your head.
Grafting organs of vision to flights of fancy
just as they get crushed
by the relentless onrush of motives,
where motives is a thin word,
like dust in your eyes,
unlike the sound of fucking.
I cannot be seen like this, I haven't
got my head on, there is face all over the place,
I give great fake video date my phone chirps helpfully
but outside the eyes the bombs are fallings fast,
pigeons panic and front row seats
at the end of the world await.