Wednesday 4/11/2007 01:02:00 AM

She always wore her sweaters close to her neck. The beauty of the buttons was in how easily they came undone. Husks of shrimp down upon so many plates at the local red lobster. The fresh dead. The funerals without a name. Bowls of party chips undisturbed. The salt on their fingers unforgiving of the thrist imposed. The dark posters of profantiy hung on emtpy walls. Crucifixes for failed saviors.

Give me then. Failing puddles arguing with the sun. The coy semantics of happiness skipping rope to the tune of my restlessness. In rhymes unremarkable. With denim fists. Punching out a new obessesion.

RuKsaK said...

'denim fists' - are you kidding me? that is a superb collocation - truly. Also, 'dog' is one of my favourite, if not my favourite word. I'd like to write a book one day called 'bad dogs' simply because those two words encapsulate so much of what I'm trying to write about.

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