Dayn Schulman

Artificial Lighting

as the last quickened wisp of the
fiery colors of the reflected sun
beleaguered their return to the
white-ish grey from which they came,
she begged for the knife to plunge
anywhere in her, conveniently, earnestly, and without further mention.

answering, the moving artificial lighting
corrupted his cool-calm,
and he glanced at what once meant everything
fractled diction drifts in the
slow motion draft and is lost, the drool on his cock-eyed chin wakes him,
and he regathers/repeats his BS.

Pupils dilate, regaining the fleeting notion of
here and now and slaps him, laughs,
but every fucking Hooker deserves what she wants,
a sharp ending to what has been a poor
stab at describing just that,
funny enough.

 

 

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