Perfect Moment Poem by Peter Black

Perfection is but a human conceit
Impossible, though constantly placed
Like salt upon all things we eat
To be judged bland, good, always in need.
The dreams I have had of two lips wet pressed
Upon my-
I see perfection in spit, in eyes that grow wide
Have no limit drift over skin that pimples
Cold and grows, spills out into the room as a blue glow
I blow out all despair for human kind
Forget the envy, wrath, chains of lies
Deny god, the devil, highlord time
And find nothing for one perfect click and grind
In the eternal mechanism, space existence growing universe
Where I am living and peacefully dead
Limbs sprawled out no thoughts in my head.