In the -hood

There's some kind of crap
in your hair.
Young boy.
Pissing out the flame.
As he dances the music
plays, silhouetting him in the half
light of the spirit he has created, and
although he is just sitting there she
smiles
back at him
and for her this is it, this is where it
begins

a new experience

an initiation

of sorts.

A bronzed shield brushed with
burgundy,
A lamp pulsing twig limbs
all apart.
Brothers and
sisters, tugging the rope, drank
down the plug hole,
but in some kind of love.

Loft lifted out of written ropes,
rigged and fitted, doubt un-done,
beating to the heart of some
other one.