Do you think the beat drew them
Like flies to foul carrion,
Contorted by world ways?
A string of burnt beads.
Voiceless and glowing with
Sweat. There was a furious sun that day,
Designated to celebrate something
Insignificant, a plastic portion of
A collective identity.
Defeated each time the darts
Whipped from eyes and spandex,
Until the street-feet ebbed to allow the boundary.
Brown and rose oils crushed on the
Canvas of a closed road.
A mole then seemed a gem.
The ripple after ringleader, the
Brush in jagged motion to grasp
A curve of the hem
Beneath a buttock. This clan of
Anti-ballerinas.
Flat-hand, pheromone.
A pernicious parade is what I saw,
A fluid contradiction. Insignificant,
But it is the idea that they broke.
The multitude may have made
Messiahs, but I doubt
I was the lone acolyte
Of logic. Another pair that stared
Must have caught the scent of
Tarred wings, lost flight.
© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH
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