Thursday 4/20/2006 10:33:00 PM

Watching the cursor dance.

Talking to the words. Sometimes. Sometimes they will listen. Photographs in black and white. Too polaroid. Cavernous greys. Paper thin people.

They never move. Never change at all until I stop looking.

Stealing from each other with every silence. All that's lapsed between crawling like ivy over every face of this building. It used to be the eyes, but now it's just the skull.

Watching the cursor dance.

Thinking somehow it can listen. With worn crayons that betray their colors. And those edges too close to what is drawn.

I look for the lips, but they could be anywhere.

Now that we're dealing in mannequins. Plastic arms still comfort somehow. While fingers fused together attempt to hold.

Turning the hour on its side. So that it might breathe a little better. Through its illness. Tomorrow yields such different results than my equations suggest. I never know whether or not it's mistaken.

Drawing the outline in fleshy inks. As our bodies dissect the darkness.

It was already dead when we found it.

We didn't want to learn, but it wanted us.

Watching the cursor dance.

Knowing it decides what I will know. Who I will be when I wake up and am left to read this. Alone.

Sinking the drill into holes already dug. So much love in the world. Always wasted on those who already have it. And just want to keep what they think they own.

The truth on its perch like a vulture. Following that trail. Swallowing everything that led to.

Open legs spilling life out like jelly slipping off the knife.

Watching the cursor dance. It could listen if I let it. Vomit me inward until I was whole again.

Play every record backward until I hear the devil call my name again.

And then I would get in line. Watching the cursor dance.

Begging it to listen. Knowing it can't.

We leave no tracks. If we're lucky. There's no way to go back again. Relive the miscarriage.

Collecting the blood a spoonful at a time. As if it could feed us. Or that we could catch what falls from it. As it pours generously from sores that remain infected.

Watching the cursor dance.

Asking it. Always asking. Knowing it hasn't any answers.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.