Friday 8/03/2007 12:11:00 AM

The eager. Diamond fisted, big titted itch. The truth. Schizophrenic, dirty chinned gigolo. The river. A tsunami erupting from her thighs. In a catastrophe of woman. Killing everything and nothing. One dick at a time.

The calm of paupers. Warm as a the coax of lipstick to a drugstore queen. Owning nothing but the color of their kiss on someone else's underwear. The bite of zippers beating out a parade of lyrics she can't recall.

Like when. she knew the fashions of all her captors.

Or how. she could recognize them in any disguise.

Of if. They've changed since then.

And why. the names she calls them by don't mean anything anymore.

RuKsaK said...

I'd kill for a big-titted itch (and the imagination to conjure such a line), but all I have are bones riddled with starving, brainless rats.

alcoholic poet said...

it's not imagination so much as it is beer.

feed those rats.

i miss your writings ruk.

really really do.

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