Friday 3/09/2012 01:37:00 AM

how close was i to god that he stopped and spit on my pencil. the train tracks. the nervous jog of the engine. like chapped lips mouthing the words to songs i don't remember.

brown veins. thick with mud. the blood dances through them. in broken songs and missing skins. volcanoes quietly erupt. at the foot of her bed.

the numbers pretend to know her. prescient demons play poker with open zippers. the hours purpose their men. stiff game boards and heavy dice. welcome the redundancy of the end.

the path prevails. god's ugly children burn hotter than his angels. the choke of the flame suffocates her flesh. the throttle of choices undermines her resolve.

one empty scale carefully weighing the next. until everything is weightless.

the switch turns. spins. cradles of when. the rage felt ripe enough to taste. now it's old. lazy. poisoned by the edge. a necessity of strays. claws out. stomachs empty.

the monster waiting. asleep on the railroad tracks. the train fast approaching.

little black boxes of gods. waiting on the check marks of men. blades. too close to the sun. cut the clouds open. make it rain lies. forfeit the truth for freedom.

the wolf. digs into the picnic basket. soft claws still cut. the forest chases her. as if she was never that close.

0 comments:


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