Wearing the skin in cold detergents. Stains teasing to be overcome. Little monsters outlining clauses in old contracts.
Wearing the skin. Worn by it. In moments of vomit with napkins against our faces. Fighting the clock. For so many reasons. Winning hardly seems relevant.
We can strip the bear. Mascots of loneliness molesting the charm. Of words almost written. And men unsure. Of what they want.
Dense proteins in the armpit of teras. All this listening makes me want to be heard.
The slaughter pretends to know what to say to them as we lose sight of each other.
It's not over until I'm drunk enough to admit that no one else remembers. What I can't forget.
The liars in their cockpits. Crashing into us.
The never like paste on her tongue. Keeping close what should be distant. Were I ever that sober
Monday
4/07/2008 12:47:00 AM
Sad Labels:
clarity
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