my pastel greaser

as we are launched into
the reaches of space
of an endless island
with no salt and no sand
in this place
novas and motorbikes
encapsulated by a shielding glow
the dashed pattern of white
sliding around a pastel globe
the black leather sleeves
and flaps over the chest
romance me – a double
to mirror the stare
and glow like the plethoras of glass
reflecting the light brought
by balls of gas
synthesisers seduce acoustic strings
smoke steals our senses and our lips
loosen from it to press together
as if they were broken
magnetised paper clips
lost from bland purpose and
found by themselves,

Eiri J Brown 


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