breaking hearts and breaking hymen

i once dreamt of color; viral color.  i invited it, pleaded for it to become a parasite.  instead it mocked, commanded me to use dirty rags to fill the hole it refused to fill; the grave it refused to lay in.  am i really a burial gound?  is their enough in me to syphon all good from such a noble metaphorical idea?  the answer scares me; my reflection scares me.  i have become the vagrant on the street corner; the one running his tongue against his teeth, the one running his fingers through my change.  i gave to these people, so i became apart of them, they all own little parts of me.  months ago, a man came up to me in the city, begging. he asked for anything i could part with.  i ran my hands through my pockets and selfishly hid my sunglasses and money, all i offered him was a lighter.  it exchanged hands and he shook it vigorously; inspecting its contents, he left satisfied.  i watched him toy with the lighter in an alleyway while i ate food that was bought for me.  the point is, handouts are handouts; i still try to look down from my already subverted vantage.

the bitter honesty in a glass eye, the gluttony in each forsaken glance we shoot as projectiles.  is a display of passion an act of transcendence or dissent?  is it a brutal honesty in our exposed gleaming skeletons; or is it patronizingly simple schmatics for our complex circuitry?  either way it leaves us writing mechanical monstrosities; writhing oil slicks.  we are but household cliches; makeup kits for burn victims. our masking silences have became the condom for our carnal sins; emotions decorated by thoughts of a funeral masquerade.  we are both exposed as paradoxical creatures, as abandoned furnishings devoid of dust cloths.  each dulled with blanketing particles, damning dust to inhibit senses.  we became the stocks slung across our throats, we are the gallows;  as intertwined as the braids in our noose.

He became Sherlock Holmes, a shocking transformation made under a swirl of grey smoke.  Swirling vapor disguising his every breath and heart beat.  His hair became infidelity, a golden flux of guilt.  Camouflaging all this was a cap, a lid to keep corrupting demons at bay.  His heart burdened by others, his mind was a plane crash, or a careful incision made by a careful hand.  His voice became an organ, mellifluous melody.  He became a malignant militant, marching rifle strewn over shoulder, kissing his clavicle.  

A striking silence fell over his corner, nature became masochistic machinery.  It all became a humming motor, the exchanging of words and currencies.  The stranger took the wheel and became frenzied.  He was a carousel, a coin operated man.  

He became his own breath, shortened by a corset.  The binding tourniquet became his Shepard, fleecing had already begun.  His eyes were now black holes, pouring with resent, leaking pain.  His flesh became fluid, the dam had finally burst.  Muscle was revealed; secret pulsing no longer remained so.  Ribs split and were passed from hand.  A punctured balloon embodied his right lung.  He became metal, or at least thats what he tasted like.  Each breath more mechanical then the last, each breath became frailer.  

He had become the silence that night; the man behind the smoke now lay in a heap.  His tissue was becoming the filth he lay upon and he was forgotten.