The silver girl on the
bench at the bus stop
had striking silver hair
like an emergence from
another world with
huge insect shades and
pale skin that was
monolith smooth
she idly thumbed her
way through notifications
and updates while
from across the road
I watched her like
a television through
someone’s window
did her cunt get wet
and stink did she bleed
from wounds and excrete
like me, her
quantum stabilised surface
alluded to no such
organic demeanours
her pristine flesh
transcended itself
the perfect form of the
flesh becomes more
than the flesh that
makes it
and I wanted to make
her flesh
to flay her of her denim
alive
to see the gilded cusp
of her pudendal scarp
as sterile as liquor
and as deliriant
where was she of
where did she head
at twenty-five past
that hour, and
why does it feel like
nothing will ever change?
because it willn’t.
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