Monday 11/06/2006 01:04:00 AM

His calamity would come in bursts. Pale, strategic coughs. While he waited for my sympathy. In doses. Not so strong as to cure. Only to sustain him in his sickness.

There's nothing like being a woman. Stranded in the run of old panty hose. Crippled by bras that hook at the rear. Wishing for rubber arms and marble legs. I'm an image. A faulty perfection chiseled from the mountain of my flaws.

Swollen shut against the receipt of pleasure until my contribution to his has been verified. By the burp of ecstasy.

He'd look at the walls. The shapes I'd drawn upon them. In moments stalled. Crude photographs of the heart. Developing in colored pencil stabs.

I'd listen like a trap set. String tied to a stick propping up a box. I'd listen. Like I hadn't already been caught.

0 comments:


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