Textures of shame
Glass sides tip away the hope of perception and cameras flash away any hint of reflection
at this hub of metal minds and stiff bodies.
This soft grey raven digs for existence among the steel nest of discardment.
Every sip a taste of us, our residue his everything.
Around me, gold fingered bird-watchers with their fogged up binoculors,
tasting their uncessary glory.
Molten pride down their gullet with every attempt of care.
The raven behind his frosted wall continues as we all did one day,
before the invention of shame.
My full-bodied and leggy red turns slowly
into dishwater sporned from rusty taps
and the pride I swallowed curdles and sits.
The audience huff away the mouldy crumbs invading their platform
with pursed lips and iron smiles.
Their egyptian cotton at risk of the essence of this man.
Stigma strokes me
as the glass tips up and wags its finger.