Feet in open toed sandals
Point the way to somewhere
I really do not want to be.
Fake relaxation
Of a sand-seeking crowd
Desperately trying to grasp at indifference,
But like the eyes of bad actors
Their middle class needs
Are not buried deep enough
To convince anyone who is not the same as them
That contentment is merely an outlook.

Blueprints of progress plans
Outline the rooms which
I really do not want to find myself.
Expansion of boarders and
Expensive earnings of
Destructive creativity,
Wish to own acres as
Most people own blades of grass.
It must get tiring
Living in a paradox where
Contentment is always chasing more want.

A signet ring on an index finger
Bears the name
That I never want to be called.
The aim of turning all the heads,
The most important footprints
Depend on the pattern on the sole of the shoe.
Variations become imperfections
When a face is modelled on plastic
Not the other way round
Always convincing one’s self
That contentment is the very next purchase.

Tan-lines of absent undergarments outline
Where I do not want my desire.
Piling up the landfills of
Someone else’s tattered emotions ,
Stacking up the skins of satisfaction
Sought so often.
Calices form over sensitivities
To the significance of intimacy,
It’s a race against the wrinkle clock
To fill up a pornographic memory
With the assumed obscenity of contentment.

Scenes I do not want to be a part of...
Written January 2010


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