My alibi is

simply that I don't want to --


betray my comrades.

Contagion you have made some ill, some die
Some weak, some weaker still but I
Have found in you an unexpected Alibi.
Confined I find like mind apt to remind
Of a former time. Yet, your spiky crown
First afflicting then affecting did come down.

Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready

Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Pleasurely.

Like a clockwork's rhyme
they grow on him,
the soft moan of her heels.
Here she comes, they tell him
as they gently pry loose
of her tender feet.

A quiver is set into motion
like strings of a cello
consumed by touch
every time her voice breaks free
like a fugitive
from its own abode.

The visiting breeze crosses by
the slow hum
of her breathing,
and carries the gasps
in hurried echoes
to remind him she's checked in.

A mischief rolled into smile
escapes her lips
to touch a heart so shy,
only to leave it
and **** with pain
while making it a willing alibi.