Another day in silence
among the alien buildings, horns and women
and pretending ghosts of society.
Cold, malignant eyes stare at you
from across the coffee table.
A million resonances lost in thought
as waiters in moonlight restaurants
come with a pair of eyes
like the retreating waltz of the chandelier
and the soft, naked toes that melt
across the ballroom floor.
The tungsten casts shadows in the wind
purple shadows, nasty oblique shadows
of wind, motion and commotion,
shadows of our faces, fingers and toes
forming a strange algebra of love and horror
across the giant ballroom wall.
Breath in breath we move,
gliding across like live, fluid reflections
until the lights, sounds and faces
merge in the purple equilibrium of our eyes.
Sand in our eyes,
the stares, the motion and the orchestra
penetrate their neon fingers
like a camera through a patch of fallen sky.
The faith in your eyes frightens me tonight.
For when the music stops
your body is still waltzing like a naked flame
and the bullets of vision rain down
from scorching, purple flesh of molten retina;
the neon, the fingers, the people
all become huge scorpion eyes
on the walls.
The ballroom floor and the moonlight restaurants,
the buildings, the horns and the sun
all burn in optic arguments
until the traffic and the rivers
all begin to watch in perplexed agony.
Come, let’s hide if we ever can
from the countless worms of vision
wriggling across our skin
sliding in and into you and me.
Deafening flux of liquid vision
colliding all across the coffee table,
the waiter serves me a pair of eyes.