Friday 6/04/2010 01:47:00 AM

The world in matchsticks. Paper with fire at both ends. Bartering all of its trampolines. For just one step. Silent from her perch above. All her hollow costumes down there, not withstanding.

Hidden inside the storm. She opens the window and prepares for the force of the wind. As together they imagine the future in cracking glass and sobs of skin.

Working the tension. Massaging that narrow opening. As the vessel is extracted from its contents. Just one lever. One button. On a lonely machine. In an empty room. Where no one goes. The arbiters of friction busy themselves teasing the angry ghosts.

These walls not quite real enough.

The numbers on the dial confessing. Minor sins too small to construct such an elaborate hell as this.

Pondering the catapult. Dwarfed under the shadow of this enormous trebuchet of skin. Having started a war I cannot finish. Having travelled so far just to get find the beginning.

The matador flaunts his red cloak. But the bull is already dead.

0 comments:


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