What comes after nothing? Progress sewn into knotted brows. Snowflakes seducing the porchlight one echo at a time. Little hookers in broken heels. Spilling the purple from the decanter we call January. Loose undergarments sculpting the lycra fists her clothes punched into her ass. The new year already old. The cold never comes late enough for heavy beds that sigh against walls weighted with lovers' skins.
The seams in the glass pitch forward as I tilt my grip toward the ceiling. Sailboats lurched by the rage of the wind. The choices turn their backs. Tired of listening to the rape of the headboard as it skirts the walls. Barely bleeding enough to reach the floor.
The seams, they were always there. Promising to burst. Anxious counters on the time bombs my life had determined. Smelling of beer and lubricant. Prostituted by the smallest consequence. Dandruff on their shoudlers.
The veins. They cresendo to daggers. Stabbing it all away. In kissing scissors of touch. Callous whetstones of men. Honing the fever. Until only the disease is left.
Sunday
1/21/2007 11:49:00 PM
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