Friday 3/02/2012 12:32:00 AM

She wagers on those gentle tyrants. Lies are true enough sometimes. The vex of her thighs. as they delineate condition. Soft stones tell the path, but betray our steps. Gambling suits her shadow more than it does her skin. She draws on her faces in pencil. But remember each of them in ink.

She presses the button. Soft graves flaunt their stories.

The rabbit listens. Spoiled by the race. More device than participant. The ceiling leans in. To hear her whisper. of small rooms. Manic with color. And the madness that listens for each desperate hue.

the hours like lazy despots. the minutes like beautiful doses of heroin.

she wears her eyes. torn pages. foul with word and wager.

a hole in the world tempts her. but nothing changes.

She chases the zipper. But her monsters are still naked.

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