Monday 2/26/2007 12:54:00 AM

The sarcasm came in stitches. Large needles opening old wounds. Petticoats of scars puffing up loose skin. Putting life into parenthesis. The chicken with its beak in its hand. Flirting with whores happiness pimps to all the barren apostles still dead enough to listen.

Tiny hammers in every jab of his tongue. Little pebbles under my breath. Building their boulders.

Frail instigations of worlds we'll never know. Pale exorcisms for those tainted by tomorrow. In gravelly gowns made of circumstance. In nightmares too ambivalent to fear. I sleep. Still awake enough to hear.

The hiss in the ears of deaf gods. The prowl of life in the throats of mute prophets.

The words proof enough.

1 comments:
Shannon said...

I defy anyone not to be intrigued after reading the opening paragraph on this wonderful piece.

Shades of Brendan Behan, but far better...

Your following in Ireland grows by the hour.



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