Saturday 7/30/2011 10:57:00 PM

the wet on her tongue still tastes of hours before. a storm rages between the creases in her lips. rotten apples. their skin not pierced. the meat devoured from within.

the blunt satisfaction. the spoiled justice. that can only be found in hopelessness. long threads unraveling to endless knots. frightened snakes twisting in the darkness. nothing without their poison.

the numbers arrive in colors. stabs of light that carve the sharper images. from the soft curves on the thought. division makes more from less.

with our every step the earth is shifted. gravity becomes us. the pull of hunger's fever. the shameless futility of want. the numbers. every one with their own beating heart. sick with the science of cause.

the threads may change. still the needles remain constant.

Tuesday 7/26/2011 04:24:00 PM

hours spread through her body like infection. she fits herself into the disease. as well as she can. the autonomy of fishhooks intense with sabotage.

the treason is touch. a clown on the piano to persuade the deaf.

she stands at the center. arms trembling under the weight of emptiness. she stands there in the middle. dwarfed by the enormity of choices she had perceived as so small. isolated by windows she neglected to open. frozen shut.

the life that once gestated inside her. now hard. calcified. dead. necrotic. the days. the months. the years. a continuous series of miscarriages.

an arrow on the ground. dug deeper each time. still unable to guide the blind man.

she crawls toward the center. pivoting wildly against the weight that she drags. stranding herself at the center.

to wait.

for the bridge to collapse.

Sunday 7/24/2011 12:46:00 AM

the years wear her. a loose drape. barely enough to cover how much has been spent.

the compulsion festers. an empty revolver. anything else is merely ammunition.

chance arrives stale. and leaves the same. there are dials. and levers. tiny boxes full of diversion. that transform the young into the old. discarded weapons to comfort the dead that can't fit into any grave.

buttons pressed. whisper of surrender. blades bent. keep their shackles silent even as they tremble. it's always about death. the abyss within. that swallows up any echoes which attempt to escape.

it's about repetition. the erosion of skin as it swells against the illusion of intimacy. it's about compulsion. hard stabs of love that leave the entrance swollen and bleeding.

she remembers herself only in the faces of strangers. and wonders if they're forgotten.

Saturday 7/23/2011 12:15:00 AM

the broccoli made me do it t-shirt.

devilish green fiend.

flowery impetuous weed.

cruciferous conundrum of crunchiness.

chlorfil whore high on photosynthesis.

Monday 7/18/2011 12:56:00 AM

eager pistons throb. within beautiful corpses. teeth in the tunnel. gnaw on the panic. spend the threads. frail locks. brittle walls. corrupt with choices. so much poison to play with. subtle as she tries to be, her body is a treason.

the barter in her grin. manages to purchase for her only more empty hours. the rage in his sobs festers. growing stronger. spreading its infection.

she touches the void. curious to feel. there is surface. there is weight. there is density. in the hollow.

tying knots. to make windows in the flesh. the muscle. the bones. substantiated by what is missing.

the equation boasts of its humanity. numbers and blood mingle. under the guise of science. she struggles. as time picks up speed.

the whole world deaf. waiting on a blind man's gun shot.

quietly the world ends.

Tuesday 7/12/2011 01:40:00 AM

stones in her throat. fetch steps to oblivion. worms in her head. parse its random isotopes.

there is nothing whole. only the sand in her shoes. as she surveys the edge of the world. the perimeter is vast, but inside it everything is small. a swarm of acquiescent fragments manipulated by the momentum of their frenzy.

the rigid horizon cradles her angels. the science of want is the devil's chessboard.

the burnt wood. under the mantle. dares not forget the flames. cold as it has become. the ladder stilted. the voices dense. on the stage. where half-hearted hamlets rage at plastic skulls. timid soliloquies smothered by their rage.

each word a razor blade on her lips.

so much to say.

before that fickle curtain closes.

Thursday 7/07/2011 12:55:00 AM

Drawing in the folds. Soft pencils trace the vacuum. Bits of wolf overcome the lamb. Need betrays us. In sobs and punches. Chokes of flesh measure. The distance between how and if.

Close drifts further away. The bridges collapse.

The persistence of mirrors all that remains. Every corner aware. As she studies the intrusion. Chasing the reflections of the strangers inside her. Long nightgowns heavy with sleeping despots.

the choice slips inside her. Bricks and saliva. Ripe with gravity.

The fall comes, but the free is gone.

Monday 7/04/2011 01:06:00 AM

patterns. the subtle craft of skin. to extract awareness from vanity. perpetual. the compulsion. the genius. of desperation to burden us with life. the wormhole at the base of our spine. carelessly naming the colors. these broken bulbs have cast. misunderstanding the darkness that grants us sight.

time is a blind surgeon. cutting the cancer out of corpses. futile heroics.

the wormhole exhales. she waits. for the future to find her. a soft bridge over a deep expanse. a disease worth having, even if only to know its beautiful symptoms. the possibility of a cure.

Even a funeral might be a victory. Even dying might be a reward.

The wormhole teases. Chances to die. Opportunities to live. The monkey rapes the chalkboard. The scientist fiddles with the maze. Everything is close. Burnt matchsticks. Everything is distant. Paper dresses still carry the stones.

the dead have a way of choosing their graves.

Friday 7/01/2011 12:55:00 AM

the nail breaks. the hair is split. derelict prepositions poison the sentence. diluted villains belittle the champion. close to the edge. closer still to gravity. she rarely remembers the fall. it's the landing that sticks.

the monkey pushes its stick into the hole. confident in the victimology of circumstance. a cascade of effect storms down. in tight little fists of how. if the sky were closer. I wouldn't have to reach so far. if the Earth only spun a little bit slower I could make some progress.

the moment thumps on the book. a stoic drum pushing the journey forward even as I stumbled back again. little bows in the storm of her hair play like raindrops on the glass in her cheeks. frantically lost in the wake of their own momentum.

touching the curtain she feels the mere millimeters between then and now. progress. parasites on her tongue peddle their silence. while she waits on the words that never come.

tiny footprints in big puddles of cement. a vague promise of permanence. wet maps. bring her closer. all paths bleeding into one.

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