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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A girl inside a blank polaroid.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 01, 2008



We all showed up early to your smoke screen slide show-
Undressed lenses tied infrared to distorted eyeballs
with a heated light source from just one of your dead stares,
burning up double time.

We condensed the tight room with our open minds-
Watched the flat screen, bare back of your decayed crust
open for the bullet to the musket like your empty slot light bulb.
It takes a minute to adjust.

Lights out.

Clicks alternate images with space for artistic pollution-
A dead, center magnification through an 8 millimeter reflex.
Fingers revolving around a carousel like a self-inflicted bruise,
I'm watching you move.

You're a wax cast, carbon copy figurine to this man-made, soul screening.
Plastered, plastic meaning onto a transparency.
And when the lights flicker back, you hang like an old dried up piece of negative film.
Opaque, underexposed and washed away.


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