Monday 4/20/2009 12:40:00 AM

On the outside. The statisticians in the fold. Take up their irons. Angry ghosts press on the creases. Make certain we will not forget. The setting suns at our backs. The rising dicks at our throats. The fierce genitalia of the calendar. As it births the dead.

Struggling gods. On their heavenly futons. Dream of their simian victims of gravity. studious to the texts. Flesh has laid out for them. Meticulously aware of the hours. Designated to assign life to what cannot live.

She pulled him inside the chamber. Dark and bright. With admonished thoughts. Of how close far is. How brief eternity. When it's nothing we can understand. We are scuffs marks. On the shoes of bigger feet. Snot expelled by hurried winds.

Arranging numbers. Desperate to know. How. If. When. It will ever make sense. Manipulating the math. To convince ourselves we matter.

Exiting the chamber. He saw the fingers of gravity. Reaching out to grab them. He saw the smirk of the wind. As it blew passed.

Scattering any evidence. That he had been there.

It was always raining. And it continued to do so.

0 comments:


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