Thursday 9/02/2010 01:42:00 AM

The bricks. Coughing underneath her feet. Soft with empty stages. Actors ripe with nothing to say. The bricks. Building their rigid stairs. As up convinces. These clean dresses to adopt those dirty aprons.

Measuring the moments. In strict obsessions. plastic skin focuses on the scrape. In elastic skin. It grows over. Forgets. Everything we've taught it. Heavy drinks on the edge of her lips. Flaunting their so called happy endings.

Working the numbers. A series of patent labors. In the quake of hollow dungeons. The feather in my hand. The wing of the bird a faint echo. The cackle of the sky as it opens up to swallow us. the useless button. I continue to press.

Her pinwheels in the wind. Relentlessly spinning. Her monsters absorbed into the experiments. The base formulas of skin. Evident in the weakness of her arithmetic. The empty box. Between her thighs. The everything inside it. Demanding something more.

0 comments:


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