Sunday 9/28/2008 12:35:00 AM

The god in his penis didn't feel very omniscient. Molecules. Stick figures of people. I can't draw at all. Nor erase. Big pages. With nothing written on them. Children in their father's clothing. Discussing pain in doses of medicine. Pain is the only place where life really makes sense. These dead seeds grow into monsters we're more than happy to have devour us.

The hours search for each other. Lost in these labyrinths of skin. Time is the victim of people. A prisoner of the intricate equations we claim are love. There is sight. Even for the dolls with their eyes plucked out. They see.

The empty dormitories that darken her eyes. The little weights they add to the scale to make her small again. Choosing the dead. The ambulance chirping in her chest. Save us.

Time comes in broken frequencies. Black ink I can hear writing. Useless words. Skin I can find after any man is gone. The smallest pieces of us create the biggest bang.

What I want to wear. A light dead before I ever saw it. Eliminating the flesh. Taking away the god. All we are left with is a world. That knows nothing. of who we are.

0 comments:


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