i’m skint pale
skinned, fit until
someone claims me
bitch; sticks his
jack in. take pity
because it’s
better than nothing.
what is it? but
pre-emptive this
effacement. i do it good
i do it w/out thinking. let the whip
fly flail
my skin like it’s paper.
cut me down when i fail.
rub my face in it
on the inside i’m
? hold hands
watch dawn
crack. i fucking told you.
we’re sick, twin-
starred.
which is the mask? to be
myself is not
possible.
play word games in the sand pit.
we’re not solid as we think.
granted:
when we’re hit,
the metaphysic founders, ideals feel
vacuous
like air. but when we stir
in the long gentle night,
unwind,
no-one can touch us.
Thank you, Dean. I’m passed (past?) the mid-life jumble, unfortunately. Feeling good, tho.
well I can’t find a door in; the twins sharing immortality between them, duel natures, the word ‘skint’ accompanies my interpretation throughout, wondering if you are dollah-jammed, two-faced…in some midlife jumble…?