Sunday 6 June 2010

POP

Someone's blowing soap bubbles
inside my chest.
Perfect circles slip
upwards
bouncing, glistening, populating,
multiplying,
pushing against one another,
until a shiny bubble bursts
against the flesh wall.

Stuck
like suits stuffed in an elevator
with no floor to press.

Bubbles turn into a slick substance
coating bones;
a rainbow of light
transforms into overflowing washing liquid,
foaming suds push outwards
harvested and grown from dreams
left behind,
waiting,
caught.

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