sighing skins grieve the villains who've molested them. the daring particle close enough to the fang. to swim in the hungry saliva. of a predator's whim. it dances slowly. on the point of the pin. shouting at the blunt of the thread. about how many holes there are still to mend.

a chorus of snakes weep. at the funeral of the rat. giving away her time to the cracks in fragile atoms. straddling the earthquakes. a whore. chewing through the mud for a worthy cock.

the future boasts from a distant ledge. feather stones beating on leather flesh. we'd all be rich. if time were cum and hours made flesh.

but we are bones. the hard edges struck into the soft soil of when. these poisons were sufficient measure. of all the devils we call friend.

choices choose us. long toenails catch on fraying threads. words like chains grow from her limbs. choices. pale tornadoes hiding between the wings of the butterfly. out there. auspicious worlds. full of sound and fury. silent.

the insects still tell their stories. rambling as they may be. no glass between. these purulent evolutions. the infection is close. one choice. threatens all the rest. her coin purse deflated.

the satire befriends. the irony is justice. out there. small nooses. thick rope. she sees. moments like glass. broach the barrier. greet the raindrops with a shaking fist. that trembles to grab dead skin.

the monopoly time has convinces her to confess.

that the windows still pretend. there is something beyond them.

the choice. sharp wire. caressing the softest locations. her fingers. folds in the momentum that drives. butterflies to earthquakes.

the random. a curdle of necessity in the broken jug. sex like pennies. thrown to the wish. decisions roaring. from inside their cages. frightening, but impotent.

the voices. stages of when. there were still truths to multiply. heavy baskets. holding nothing. cracking handles. and fraying rattan. drawing her face in the corners.

the walls like paste. everything attached. her bags empty. yet still weighted. the caution of trust. the conditions of touch. colliding. a weak apocalypse. dependent upon dirty handkerchiefs.

the snore of the monster. as her nightmare wakes her up. the intrusion of doubt as the map is washed away. drops of ink form the rain. as she lets the storm rage.

everything sleeps. even skeletons. everything is close. it's the desire that drifts. row boats in the ocean. trembling oars paddling. for islands out of reach.

the witch flaunting her spells. the snake. with skins to shed. rubbing against empty walls. she finds the future in doses of poison and tricks of skin. she finds it there, but she never takes it with her.

the leopard the lizard continue their debate. color or conditions. mostly the price of. the desert tells its stores. in bouts of plaigarism. everything is stolen from something. it's a case of evidence.

the leprechaun leans against his pot. his treasure small as small as he is.

scribbling the number. on odd pieces of skin. empty needles. toilets high on the thing we wish we didn't need.

the soft parade. the juncture like citrus in the sore. choices. as frail as the people that made them. the poison simple enough to replicate. even long after it's gone.

the choice hanging on. scarping like a stray. at forgotten doors.

Time. In limps and crawls. manages to catch up.

Though I no longer keep count.

the planks fall into place. all diseases decided. the floor beneath her feet trembles. desperate to find the choice it wasn't given.

time curdles. sour milk. shallow bowls. the origami of skin. folds each touch into the next. until we are lost without it. little rips procreating. until there are only pieces.

time sours. the same as any meat. dead flesh. more trouble to produce than it is worth to eat.

slaughterhouses in her head. constantly killing. anything that resembles food.

she draws on the sidewalk. in hunks of chalk. each pastel a predator. she throws her stones. assuming the game is enough. and that there can be a victor.

choices. like too much gasoline. flooding the motor. time. in conditions of men. As if flesh could determine the motive. as if math were sufficient. to name these demons.

Infinity waits for her to find it.

the number. a crush of no. in a ocean of yes. the question. sleep like daggers. stabbing the dream.

i want the tower. all the stairs to climb. i want to catalog each mote of dust. as it settles behind the absence of my steps. an even chaos. this warring retch. of sight and sickness. a barreling loss. thieving a man from his madness.

just figures. shadows on the eyes of the moon. as it stares at us through the blinding sun. a vehicle. a motion. only small because of the enormity of that which it seeks to see.

kings have their pawns. queens their bishops. expendable courtesies of touch. gloaming poker faces strut the blades each hour sharply toils. digging. as if there could be something beneath the stubborn heave of wind and sand.

she cries again. always. the cheat of breasts as his hands move her hips in curious circles. she cries. like a child would at losing a game. convinced it is the same. she cries often. as if tears could somehow make true the things she wishes were real.

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.

time. the dark anthem of thieves and lovers. it seeps between us. slick like oil. sticky as sugar. eyes like pavement. dense with moments. fragile with manipulation. tongues like syringes. inject their futile medicines.

her daggers are small. infant epiphanies in a galaxy of wisdom's. her blood is red. rife with oxygen. as all the scabs fall away like dead soldiers. a long war. short battles. no rules except. it's never over.

there is always time. to reason with the sun. convince it the darkness is not finished with us yet. we are so small. made smaller still by these big decisions.

flirting with flight from within the confines of our cages.

tiny giants threaten their mountains. so small to us. massive to them. a lifetime of dominoes. come tumbling down.

temperance beguiles wagging tongues. solvent numbers blush at the conditions of when. tallying her steps as she approaches the edge. its abyss a short drop by comparison to how far she has already fallen.

the monsters mewl. blind kittens writhing in a perpetual darkness. the only real monsters are the ones we carry with us.

the portent and the polish. of dutiful devotions. the scrape of leather. against stiff walls. as she slithers out of her dress. the floor forgotten. the ceiling distant and weak. as she looks up to decide what worth keeping remains.

soil and seeds. grave gardens for the stalk. the hours in a boastful thunder. still bring no rain.

the void reaches out. tries to touch her. a moaning desert sick with the things it couldn't save.

sort and sire. thin legs strut a broad gait. the screen breathes to life. a starving infant. mother's tits too high. like pennies and daggers. it's always too quiet.

a rigour of checks and balances. counting silently. the travels of a lifetime. predators and wine. they flow relentlessly. pebbles and stones. war and peace are simultaneous. always.

ilk and ire. the prescient manipulations of arrogance and futility. soft stairs. hard shoes. the crunch of sand and salt in each step. the cold in bullets. vagrant and disobedient. a tunnel through the grotesque circumstance.

pointed fingers. pointed hearts. the menace of hope splitting fragile hairs.

she pretends that time isn't there. that the darkness has an end.

and sometimes.

she even believes it.

canvas and contraband. in folds thin with accusation. soft is the equilibrium between purpose and intent. her eyes in her hands. her search guilty of choosing results over relevance.

it's chemistry. solvents separating the chains. grey barns swimming in red paint. still colorless.

it's learning. the zipper will stick. and the dress will tear. a long series of paper skins for the years to sketch upon. flurries and blizzards. all the same. crucial knots in the threads that create more holes than they mend.

it's loud like the division of the atom. superlative. final. this long hopscotch of flesh. and the stones i throw at it. boxes and char. crippled rabbits. seducing the win.

the bodies on the sidewalk. confident it will rain again. teach us of this shallow hunger. that sees us. even through the din of dirty windows.

distance travelled. spoiled anthems of how close. the edge is. the darkness. stray as it is. scratching. hungry. begging. for the journey's scraps. the journey. ripe with places we never should've been.

her math flawed, but well executed. the division of victims her expertise. soft bridges. swell over the shrinking mountains. only the end is farther than we've charted. only the future is so arrogant as to assume we can't imagine.

the years to come.

skin like stale bread. touch the foul meat within.

how far is measured in decisions. how close in what we decide.

empty martyrs. teeth and storm. a rotting bucket. that was then she confesses. and i am it. dark playgrounds and creaking chains. as the alarm catches up with sleeping children. and the weak dreams in which they rest.

gauging the years in swatches of skin. the currency of touch her only remaining asset. the hours sway between this disease and all those that surround it. dark lanterns in weighted fists. the arid wrench of decision chaps her lips. as she tries to speak.

deserts. everything is washed in them. brittle sands score my fingers. until they are shattered. and the echoes are all they hold.

the truth. the loyal conspirator of emperors and paupers. just another face. in this house of mirrors.

boats full of the dead. with only ghosts to steer them.

small tacks in big holes. or so she testifies. to the solvency of corpses. as her funeral proceeds.

the blood we waste on healing would look prettier on the floor.

she knows everything. and nothing. like all women do. enthusiastic potions turn pigeons into eagles.

the sacrifice in centimeters. the consequence is miles. neglected flowers toil the vase they've been left inside. thick windows. and wolves disguised. presuming I can see what isn't obvious.

stale dresses. and empty pens. flirting with a future. that has yet to occur.
footprints on my spine. a trembling inferno of choices. forged from ordinary flesh.

the odor of want fouls our world. in wicked increments. too minute to see. she assumes the judge is looking at her, though his eyes have been removed. the girth of the steps spreads inside her fists. a sweet abundance of nothing. gripping the void. in the pale maps tears have rendered.

her caution is mild. churning infants in the bristles of fetid slumber. her rage is strong. thick scabs on every hour. ripe to be picked. time is a thick fog. she cannot see through it. days better left for other scales to measure.

the lilt of the darkness. as it caresses her thighs. wrenching the pleasure from its prison. sharp needles and blunt grins. a foul reminder that the choice is only the beginning.

the monkey walks slowly as the air shudders against his breath. the stale turbulence of touch still unaffected. islands too small to see in the depths of these oceans.

the curious atom searches for friends. the huff of the chaos makes it feel important. the world sleeps in stranger's beds. desperate strays willing to accept broken locks as an invitation to enter.

time is a fickle god. and a seldom friend. we tarnish the world with the remnants of eager skin. because it deserves. to feel. something. we boast the cauldrons of angry witches. as the spell is cast. choices forgiven for moments had. toothless predators gnawing. on bones that keep coming back.

impressing the darkness with her stern gaze. she cautions it about repetition. this skin is just a garbage bag. we recycle the rest.

I've been her before. and i will again. long icicles on the eave. waiting on the whims of the weather.

hungry animals with their fangs in the groins of gods. biting at heaven's edges.