Monday 12/15/2008 01:07:00 AM

The old men like ice storms. Cripple the young. The darkness grieves for our flesh. That it keeps safe what only abuses it. We are each remembered by the shadows that we cast. On the future. On the past. Prisoners in our skin. Because pleasure dictates us.

I remember forgetting them. As much as can be dismissed. Empty rabbit holes. The hounds with their noses deep in the scent. Of dead things. Long chased. Never quite caught.

I always practiced. Reciting the end. Knowing it to be imminent. The drug fades. People are all we have left. Want. stubbornness. In assuming the world should let them have. What none us have earned.

All the time I speculate there is to traverse. I know there is no future. Only revisions of the past. Fat girls that will always be no matter the size of their clothes. Bitter men that will blame the people that they couldn't love for having broken them.

The cold in our throats. Stacks of bricks. Settling into the mortar. Faithless friends. Going back to them. Again and again. Searching for a future that was never there.

0 comments:


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