Friday 2/18/2011 12:55:00 AM

one window stares out onto the next. the blind shouting at the deaf. out there. in that pinwheel of a world. the axle spins us according to the wind. it's there that we imagine choices where only vultures remain to pick at the carcass.

the trap is set. an anxious spring. extrapolating the probability. of knowing her. a sliver of of skin. Thick buckles. Pull on the remainder.

too close. the scream of the zipper. as the years confess. in tightening tourniquets. the blood is stopped. as if we always knew. someday it would.

the lazy demon forgets its hell. as these limping utopias persist.

while those musty boxes still wait for someone to open them.

0 comments:


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