Shoot at the light,
Spiralling into glass-less window,
An explosion, a firework,
The snare drum tops it off,
Wine stained-lips,
Breath stinking in hot rooms,
Spewing declarations condemning
The fireworks party on the small black box,
Happening without them, it is their party.
Look into the light,
There is no no-where.
Sharpened edges of shaved metal cut sure lines
Making bodies ghostly scaffolds.
They appear in miniature,
Stretched out flat
Between the cracks,
Between the fizzing beams of sound and glare.