blur, blur, blur
eye muscle twitches,
girls flinch into another kiss
with boys masticating ecclesiastical
metaphors, the eucharist of love
making motives, motifs
too complex to be rethought,

game brought
into the blur of the evening,
into the scapegoat of the basement
where boys itch for girls,
obliged, burn like wicks
hot to the touch, snuffed out
by the single flex of a wet finger
tip,

the blur of another blur,
youth spits out of their
mouths, heavy and open,
eyes saucer-like and chipped
like children throwing teacups,

teeth taste like smoke
and sugar when you've
spent the day staring
out of a dirty window
hoping for the sun.