Sunday 2/12/2012 11:52:00 PM

tunnels and bedsheets. precariously predicting flesh. the traffic in her skull. congested and urgent. travelling such great distances to take her nowhere.

the rush of stimulant. weak, yet so much stronger than I. the flood of opiates. the sigh of lazy gods. eager to abort.

she draws the lion much the same as it would tell her. if it could. write by the sharpness of those fangs. if the meat were rhythm. and the blood were song. a symphony of predators hunting for the sanctuary of hunger.

the heavy bricks. a momentary dance. the moist mortar of touch. a cacophony of purpose. where the roads all converge. humming halos on the backs of demons.

just the one stumble. the prick of how. the sweet satisfaction fo suspicion. soured by choices.

0 comments:


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