She was foul. Her entire body busily surfeited by too many tugs on her vagina. The politics of touch excavating. Forgotten graves. Exhuming the balding bones. Further evidence. That truth is multiple choice. Pointed. And curved. Like candy canes. The colors running on a bias. Where all the sweet things go to obsess. Over the process of changing.
Becoming sour.
A fountain of semen spitting out and swallowing ceaselessly. With the calm panic of one who knows how fickle love must be. To leave us with the decisions that it does.
My demons. In their best heels. Trying on dresses they can never afford. My demons. Like swatches of skin too delicious to discard.
Even after the meat has gone rotten. and the bread is stale.
It tastes better then. If you chew slowly.
Little lies on a simmer. Finally coming to a boil.
Still cold. Still scratching their names into empty folds of skin. Left over after she's undressed.
Close enough some would say. Close enough to wrong to be right. Or at least have some hope of finding it.
Choice is a victim. We are the consequence,
Thursday
5/08/2008 12:24:00 AM
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