The Disconnected

As time warps into an infinity of melted blur and i catch up with my breath,

inside it i dip in and out of 

and find fighting a blink to be a doddle,

I notice the transition,

a temperate remission,

conceding

instant

disconnect.

Fingers on either side of a glass panel

one part touching glass

one part 3 thousand miles

feet

legs

meters

off.

Algo-rhythm apocalypses

while my eyes attempt to dart from side to side

stuck in the timewarp,

grainy and mystical,

and only one part is efficient this side of the glass.

If it were a sound, 

it would be a slow motion mouthing of a fight scene,

by a newly low-voiced teenager

as he playfight enacts 

an action film scene.

If it were a smell,

it would be a sharp

or crystal clear

"body scent"

you only can detect

occasionally when putting on a jacket

that may only

linger

in your own nostrils.

a cobweb of lines and graphite

violently scraped across my lenses

by the breathing flesh within behind the glass.

I try to scream

but just can't seem

to spot the seam

or find the right dream

i came in

from.