Impulse

Impulse
Satisfying the impulse,
so quiet, not frothy mouthed,
a buttoned up shirt,
victims in the cellar.
One with the pitched roof,
pull the tiger’s tail,
look deep into her eyes,
all lost souls.
She shakes us out,
suggests that we look,
at the deviant,
the last morning.
A brutal exposed fetish,
concrete pillars,
with lashings about,
people floating.
She makes a primal appeal,
flesh and bone,
with practical constraint,
a sleepy town.
Disrupt the truth,
and disengage the senses,
we march on and on,
brazen blood-drenched drama.
She examines the decay,
a crumbled desire,
shivering on the floor,
a monochrome joke.
She serves up a visual feast,
not for the untrained eye,
the lure of too much evidence,
gaping with eager jaw.
Seeing in a different light,
always reinventing something,
hands never at rest,
a classic renaissance line.

© Deep Piercing Cut 2008