Purge Gate

Spinning glances glance from lines of light on glass,
they stare into eyes of sheep, red and wrinkled, lines darting
like roots reaching, stretching to grab your own. Home grown,
it's weak to suggest, even, the swab of tissue, white and flaccid,
lolling beside fat metal hard metal and photographilia.
Fuck. You. Don't. Mention. Her. Name. In. Here.
Sent into frenzy spending many on the tips of tongues that
oh so soon wait and tremble in beside cheeks a-quiver and strings
strung along in guitars so unpredictable so touchable,
true ripped fabric just repeats the same dull monotonic autumn,
so sheets of paper flutter onto it and lick themselves, licking,
licking licking licking along to the clunking tune, the bulky beat
of no particular street that I conjur to calm and soothe my aching bones:
techno. Wooden slats contrast to scratched surfaces beneath
elbow. Teeny tiny cakes on teeny tiny pink pencilcases can be copied
and I will stare down at you and feel more alone because you and I are the same.
I I I the autonomous autoroute to automatic hypocrisy this,
this is our issue, and I hated you so much when I heard what you did.
Now it's all we cling to. I want to write about the queen,
in her purple orange green ticket machine, so serene, so clean,
Get off my screen.