Friday 2/09/2007 12:16:00 AM

Saturdays swell like sweated legumes. Church mice gnaw the altars. The presumption of sex makes us all gods under certain circumstances.

As evil as we want to be. In little steps. On soft ladders. Served by our failure.

I taste it as I bite my nails. The lips of reason growing fat. In tangles of sex. In fists full of afterwards. Calm peasants scrub the sheets they've only just woken up from. In little sobs they coax the stains out. To lay down and begin the bleeding anew.

I know what every color means. In the riddle every lover insists. In the ease that is hating.

The pouting lips of circumstance exact their wisdom.

From the remnants of who we've loved. Stale dartboards at the back of our throats seduce the silence. Until everything is better left unsaid.

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