Saturday 1/03/2009 01:36:00 AM

The dragon breathes. Only so much fire then she chokes. Typical woman. All roar. No heat. In her long dress. With the edges made of roses. Little gardens grow at her ankles. Worlds collapse in her arms.

I'm only sober long enough to hate everything. Like all philosophers are found. In the diarrhea of dying cities.

I'm just bone. Waiting to be broken. Just skin looking for new bruises. Grab your pitchfork. Summon your devils. I've been looking forward to meeting them. Undressing those shadows that the corners will soften. Pull down those moons that couch our heavens. In lobbies of stars that applaud the actors.

Following the road. As if I know where I'm going. Same place. Different sandpaper. Those little statues we mistook for invitations. The method. The doors. In fragments of geometry. The sum at my fingertips. The pageant. People. Like scarves billowing in the wind. Pinball machines loud with the obvious ricocettes. Skin bouncing hard. The more we let go the further we are smothered by it.

Counting jacks. Useless underwear. Bold aprons solve the algorithm. Of who she is. Little pauses. Long distractions. In vague monologues. Assuming to know. When we become. These people we are.

A new year. Or an old one.

What's the difference?

All those distraction I once took for granted.

Gone.

0 comments:


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