Friday 7/25/2008 01:13:00 AM

In the habit. The chug of skin that decides how alone this is. The wagging tail. The little mouse. With fingers made of lead. Trying to arrange a lifetime of vertigo.

The sad. The near enough. The poets with their leather hearts. Laughing as we ride bareback. The words that make it easy to remember. The occasions that make it impossible to forget.

I could fuck you, but then I'd have to hate you again. For reminding me I really haven't changed at all.

I would talk to the man, but the boy interferes. It seems he woke up one morning older than he ever thought he'd be. I wasn't the cure, but I seemed like good medicine.

He wanted control. Over something. Someone. But all my knobs were stuck. He couldn't turn me on.

Sad men in their nervous traditions. Lose the ghost and gain the victim. In bouts of empty attics.

The aging portrait not listening. The time machine too stubborn to persuade her.

2 comments:
The Mad Celt said...

Leather hearts protecting fragile souls, I suppose. Yours "soul emancipation" never ceases to amaze. me.

Peace and joy...The Mad Celt

ap said...

leather as in skin removed from one body, cured and worn on another.

thanks so much for reading. it's always encouraging to know the words are really reaching someone.



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