Friday 12/14/2007 01:23:00 AM

Ask me after I've finished translating my vomit. It's too cold to be humble. I'm sick, but not sick enough to be saved. Or rescued. Or anything that makes it easy. The mirror shows its reruns until I grow tired of myself. The grapes gang up the vine. A fruitless anarchy overcomes us. We are governed by suspected truth. We are victims of pleasure. The gravity of skin pulling down until our bone are exposed.

The enemy is anyone too near.

That was years ago. The last time I spent the night with my face in the toilet. So many years ago. When I could still get drunk. And regret it. That was secret. What I told him. when we ere pretending to be other people.

Little spiders constructing giant webs. The overture of her thighs symphony enough. I always want there to be words. Something to say in all that listening.

He could be the anvil and I could be the rope. Or else we have always been. Looking for excuses to undress the doll. Give it name it hasn't had yet.

Ghosts. The subtleties of addiction creating stores where there are only words.

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