Tuesday 3/17/2009 12:04:00 AM

The numbers pretended to know us. Where we were going. Feeble leaps into the future. That left us stranded. With those same dicks in our fists. Those same holes quivering after the tip of the condom was engorged.

Wavering torches flirting grandly with thick curtains. Lies are long division. I can determine the answer. But truth. Truth is calculus. I'm looking. Always looking for where I can. Stop counting.

The numbers. Quiet births. And calm abortions. Begin and end with this flesh. These arbitrary time machines we call sex. The chamber. Dense with urgent atoms. Divide us. And divide us again.

Fission. Body. Grave. Devotion. Tease the explosion. Barter with the barrier. Between myself and her. Just now. And then. Escalating their argument. On where. Or how. Or when we were.

Engines curdle for tomorrow. The names we take. And are given. Fictions of only a moment. Fast become. Truths too permanent.

I explain to him that we have no past. No future. Only windows. That keep us apart from each other. But he doesn't believe me when I tell him the glass can be broken.

0 comments:


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