Sunday 11/19/2006 11:35:00 PM

He turned the windows off. In cold rampages. In burgundies that never matched. He counted that threads that were bare. In the seams of his epiphany. Like a child counts the number of ropes she's skipped. Idle warts on loose skin. Sick with all the remedies we apply.

I killed the loneliness tallying the reds. Carving the treasons to measure the least of the ingredients. I killed the hollow the way all crimes are executed. At the expense of someone else.

He fought the walls so discretely I almost thought I was imagining the war. He used those shadows through the glass. Monster in blue eyeliner assembling my proof.

Of the girl I almost became.

Little strangers. Their toes making polka dots in the darkness. Little moments arriving at last. So much bigger than I pictured them.

2 comments:
RuKsaK said...

wow - I can't keep up with the ferocity of your posting. this one ws quite repellent - 'cold ramages', 'idle warts' and 'loose skin' - that's some pretty ugly adjective-noun combos.

I belive Celine said something about an art of the ugly being the most divine.

alcoholic poet said...

ugh, i write in this thing like its a private journal, though it's most obviously quite the antithesis. spew out all my crap. never worry about it being good til the next morning. hopefully once in a while it is.

sadly, had to google the Celine thing. shame on me for not attending college. but i like his/your idea. i've always thought the same.



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