The pleasure of the look

Atticus Spicer (they/he) 

soft jaw, 
         plum
    and gentle,
empress,
my coherence leaves
    and gaze follows behind, 
limp and          ------ dragged 
by a voyeurist shame
​

i know this, i've read this
-- there's a death every afternoon 
when i take my eyes off 
of your blur

but i believe in 
the persistence of vision

i pray that your grace 
    let its light scorch me,
in twenty four moments of 
         seraphic,
    divine,
rapture, 
per second 
– and the retinal burn will hit 
when i return my eyes to
           their sacred darkness 
when the credits roll
– on this sadomasochistic art,
     an embodied performance of mine
pure cinema of attractions


fin