Saturday 2/17/2007 01:04:00 AM

The bed had never been in the corner. Still the corner had always been in the bed. Clean sheets smelling of an arrogant smile I could only remember during masturbation. Life is the ugliest metaphor of all. The siren wrenches us awake. The silence tuck us in. In careless cycles.

We are the carrots on someone else's stick. The eye in their tooth as they bite down on the gristle.

There is no poetry for what I've become. Nothing but ugly words can know. Small beds made smaller still by the absence of strangers.

There are few differences between an alcoholic and a poet. A small equation of little consequence. Methods of determining N may vary, but the result is constant. As hard as I try not to, I will remember. Everything that led to here. And I assume will take me away form it.

I've been up and down those stairs. At all hours. In all manner of sobriety and drunk. I've been through every bottle one word at a time. And I still don't know what they want.

There are only nominal differences between a liar and a friend. The only way to tell is to let them lie to you. Trust those jackals on your shoulder. Believe they're still as rabid as you remember.

2 comments:
De.vile said...

*Sigh* This seems like EVERY rainy day morning for the last 7 years as I'm searching the exteriors and looking into empty cans for some joy...

RuKsaK said...

this was cruel and lean - liked it a lot. 'we are the carrots on someone else's stick' is genius - I could discuss the layers, means and extrapolations of that phrase for hours.



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