Catapults in Remission

Such beautiful clothes soiled by dirty skin. In the synonym we take to bed. A kiss is statutory rape. When you've been misled. But not when you've let yourself be.

Fucking the halo that beats about her hips. In furtive sobs it does its long division. Empty taxis fumbling with tempting strangers. Their many destinations.

Those people. So many of them. Always going somewhere.

Those frail corsets we call lovers. Cinching their laces. Cold fingers cut their templates from this skin. Patterns is all we are. Knowledge disguised as pleasure.

Fucking amateurs.