A Face On A Stage

The music is not, can can, is a duplicate of some lost fantasy, caught in lights.many assets, you float outside fast poles- through it, to find it, it eyes fight, the heavy curtain of youth, lifted to reveal, some of and the birth of it.shiny textures, glow healthy, hands help from no where, parts are hatched, little are they to us, it's brown, it lings..you fan her, each reaches to lift anew, plump ankles to guide apart, new music is gathered in your bowls, as white hubbies, in pink. the Queens, gathers us, you, me them watching, up even without tickets, some others, few new found a wet hand in it, your show, your parts, exposed, some dance in powdered air, to run in her front, out the back. three, four, take pictures to record, derrieres paused, to expel pent up breath once caught and never seen.