Task: to have something inspire imagery for a poem.
Inspiration: Electronica music.

We were nothing but synth arpeggios and pulsating distortions,
neon faders ecstatically on, inhibitions surreptitiously off.
Nights drink into the morning and the mornings thirst into the nights as
we collect sunlight through tinted windows,
and count the revolutions of the ceiling fan,
the subtle taste of sin settling in my mouth
teetering on the edge of unknown adrenaline and languid acceptance.
Keep your china doll from prying eyes and polite conversation
meanwhile knowing that the moment your eyes meet hers for the first time each day
becomes the moment when your day first starts.

“He loves you, he loves you not,” as the petals of the flowers are yanked bare,
So are the dignified feathers of the Indian war bonnet affixed on a ravished name.
So are the pages of the patient calendar, murdered on the ground.
So are the puppet strings of beauty and joy once stitched into my face.
I yearn to be ink: on your arm, in the pages of your history books, the kind of ink that haunts your brain.
I can’t stand another moment awake next to you as empty and nameless as I am.