the pulse of low fidelity

a percolation of two penny nails
that seeks to pop from wallboard landscapes,
a festive fleck of paper paste
brushed on a pastiche of filthy seams.

a stroke of misfortunate aim that reddens
the pastoral view of neon, with sweet alarm,
into an afterimage of chartreuse revelation
that compromises the chill of no vacancy
with a vagrant rub on borders brick and white.

the pink hammer and velvet stirrups
form a sneaky pact to breech the act-
pressed so perfectly on bitter drywall:
fleshy prickles on the flocked blossoms,
no tumbler striped of frozen cubes required,
concentric rings of primal tones suppressed-
not the lemon grimace of the leering spy,
or the progeny of the wall-eyed stud.

in the aural embrace of furtive squeaks
the rumble of the rusty springs cries blue
or, perhaps, a long lost periwinkle hue:

it's just a joist away in the secretion of dawn,
he is always there in your moment of surrender.