In the Deep Morning After

In the deep morning after
Where there are no take backs
No gratifying hugs
Hangs a hue of peach
A dusty solemn yellow-orange-pink
Carrying with it a small drum
Drab and derelict
Upon which all our heartbeats connect
Correctly or not
We beat until we rot

All in a trance
Like getting herded
Or fucked really hard
We dismantle our singular identities
To be unified in something holy
Leaving behind a slough of clay
Collapsed in folds
Feathered in parts
Like a desert landscape
Paper cut and whizzing
To and fro
Dry on top/damp below

Left together
When the music stops
Disjointed alike
Striking a common chord
Alluring expression turned
Burn victim intensity
Dispensing our inquisitiveness
With quick candy heart allotment
Pantomiming the rest of the fable
For those who are able
To attend the phantom gala
Pretending to greet; bedside table
--
1/21/09