Saturday 6/09/2007 12:12:00 AM

Coaxing the world into your fantasy with a heavy rub. Masturbating on the frailty. Of hands about to collapse. The pale they wrote on their crutches. The dark of dead limbs moving through fallen clothes. In a headache of kisses.

The pneumonia of pleasure. Making it hard to breathe. Making them our only medicine. But the sickness become me. And I learn to love how harsh it is. The sickness croaks out its winner in a slot machine of sex.

And I'd spend a thousand people to win just one.

The treble of silence. As assuming as a peacock's tail. Of my desire to be relieved of myself. In habits bigger than I am. While we wait. The verses of tired ovaries. Whisper against the sheets. Of lives that will never be. The red sex we almost had. The spill of my sanity from this drink. Releasing my skin from it prison of memory.

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