Wednesday 11/07/2007 12:59:00 AM

Barbarians in tweed suits. His words as silken as his argyle socks. The devil wears slacks. God wears jeans. The distorted politics of capricious humanity. Because orchids bloom at night. Like love would. If it were real.

Her dolls all have crew cuts. Scissors in empty hands usurp the ugly. Sorting the blood from the raindrops. She closes the blinds and looks away from the window. Certain her choices are the villain. Not her.

All her drawings are of women. Strong in their weakness. Menstruating in power ballads. Failed pneumonia's of lust slipping into infection. The rising interest rate on mortgages of beauty are foreclosing. Stray pets everywhere. Children too grown up to love trading their diapers for some place to live.

Because we all like the smell of shit as long as it's someone else's.

Skin like diarrhea.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.