Friday 2/05/2010 12:26:00 AM

The architecture of her frown. In Obvious equations. Frayed gowns wear her. In bold instances of knotted time lines. She finds the future. Weak and crippled. She chases the future through broken mirrors and snowing clouds.

She catches it. In its trampy heels and dirty thong. A pregnant whore of skin and addiction. Talking at the dead. Answering its own questions. In shrinking words.

It's far away she says. And never has been close. Vultures wait not long. For the bone to release. Useless skin. Teasing the riddle. A plague of emotion. Interrupts her experiment.

It's close. Too close to see.

Still. I know it's there. I can feel it.

0 comments:


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