Thursday 7/05/2007 12:37:00 AM

When it rains. When I start to answer questions they've never asked. I begin to think of sex. One grand explosion of pleasure. And then we die. Or are put out like a used up cigarette. Sucked dry of all the disease inside us. Sad because they've gotten over our infection. Or were always immune to it.

When there's time. If there ever is. I'll explain. How this tide escaped the pull of the moon. How to properly love someone who's never loved you.

Broken needles in the fake fur on the arm of the teddy bear. The only drug hopelessness. Torn pantyhose concealing the scars on the legs of the bed. Memory painting my naked toes in the semen of used condoms.

When it rains. When people celebrate who they think they've become. I bite my nails. Teeth like a machine gun. And try to convince myself It's true. That the louder they say it the less true it is.

In the aftermath of these fireworks there is an independence. But not the kind I wanted.

2 comments:
RuKsaK said...

I think it's named synaethesia - what you have that is. the inabilty to separate reality from metaphor. perhaps that should be the ability to see things as they are - beneath the construct given to us. anyway, more than any other writer in my link list, you take my brain/soul/heart (all 3 of them metaphors in their own rights) and rattle it several degrees, so that the horizon is no longer where it's always been.

All the above is a compliment by the way - you do not cease to stun basically.

alcoholic poet said...

i was taking it as a compliment long before you affirmed.

hell, even if you had said it wasn't, i'd still like it.

now i have a name for my disease.

what to do? what to do?

besides, isn't everything we think we see just a metaphor created somewhere on the path from the optic nerve to the cerebral cortex?



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