Ballerina toes stretch toward
feathers, white blossoms that kiss
starved necks. Embrace
each black swan that
glides gloss pages.
A tongue is a miracle,
lapping up salt rocks,
serving colour to dull
business skirts. Charlie
waits in a back drop suit,
drenched in wallflowers
while the Hunger Crew
takes its place as
hard flesh grain.
*See HUNGER MAGAZINE
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