Wednesday 7/15/2009 01:19:00 AM

The closest link comes and goes. In the theory of the constant. She draws on the sun. Dark sketches. That bring the bright light into focus. It's far. It's near. It's the virus that slouches this flesh into its empty cradle. We heal. We cure. In tainted breaths. Cyanide skins opens ups for an ugly trial.

So I tie the knot tighter. As reality soothes to sin. The puppets mouths move, but no words come out. We shuffle the deck. Bits of skin interact. While the machine begins its lengthy boot.

The girl in the stockings bend over. To let the costume slide into place. Over her head. The child in the boots looks down. Toe tie the bow on the monster.

I'm there again. And waiting on their pitchforks.

It's dark enough she says, but the machine disagrees withe her.

0 comments:


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