Friday 5/16/2008 01:12:00 AM

Structure. The dark counting toes. Fingers. Naming the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. As it comes from behind her. In quick autopsies of the moment the cause of death is determined.

Delirium. Torn parachutes carry on fingertips of wind. Feign flight in their falling.

Candles sweat. And cameras bark. Half way up broken ladders. In buildings on fire. On dolls we once thought real. The skin falls off. And I begin to love the skeletons that they are left.

Awakened by the sun. Closing my eyes again. Trying to see.

The blood on those pretty pitchforks. Panties searching for their pussies. For their periods. Blood and children all the same to skin. Flaunting the obvious. Men and gods the same when you're a woman. Easy to manipulate. Lost in a seas of tits.

I think Satan was right when he said man shouldn't have free will. It's wasted on us.

Can't wake up. Peel the polish from her ass. In chokes of color no one sees. Can't fall asleep. Dissemble the skeleton. Label the bones. For later. When war is tired enough. To consider surrender.


Life is just this. These hours. Doomed to contemplate all the things that haven't happened. Life is strong. It goes on and on. Life is fragile. It's constantly tripped. By the footprints we made before it found us.

I am lost. Too far ahead. Waiting for the world to catch up. Telling lies I already know they won't believe.

Now. Like a guillotine. Comes crashing down. Headless aggregates assume the limbs left behind by the dead.

Craftsman of light said...

Your beauty has so much darkness....however, in your recent writing there are less clouds, though at times you make the sun a liar..Lies may be the clothes you would like to believe you're wearing, but your nakeness still comes hugging.
the truth of you skin is in desire for huggings...
I have tried to touch the cries of your skin....and realise they are soft and beautiful, wearing bushido masks that seems to scream and bite.

Jade said...

another realm
of bright madness

softermaniac said...

less clouds... maybe i'm just getting old and lazy.

as far as i'm concerned the only true beauty exists in darkness. the idea that you're free only once all hope is lost is something i truly believe.

in the more literal sense, mixing sleeping pills and beer makes for more creative imagery than either on its own. the mind becomes greater than the sum of its drugs.

if every adult american were required to use some kinda 'bad' drug at least once a month, the country, the world, would be more peaceful, more creative, less hateful. in general a better place.

Crafty Green Poet said...

I like the style in this and yes free will is wasted on us

softermaniac said...

yes, but the real question is what shall we do about it.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.