softly the world ends. silk wolves and chiffon pigs. play with the stories. tremors and quakes. prudent blood and careless flesh. it's beautiful how close we get and how distant it still remains.
the threat of happiness like flames. louder than it can last.
the gods tell her stories, but she isn't sleepy at all. so she stays awake while evolution whispers in her ear. and atoms split inside her head. burdened with and infected with the past. sick. tables tilted and afflictions resolved. apart. watching the world happen. in a series of dirty needles and torn collars.
tremulous time machines wear the winter in their raspy throats. the prior. the provacateur. stages and strings measure the choke. accuse her legs of treason. fondle the groin of gracious gods. tell their tales in menstruation and rubber cement.
the number. the fence. pantomimes and sobs. throbbing buttons on desperate machines. manipulate the fiction that we call truth. tear the child from the paper. without any colord to spare.
the thunder. the slope. the fiction of touch overcomes. eager dolls drowning in the weight of their plastic skins. the texture. of soiled dresses. the surrender of time. in the gaunt purchase of when. empty swallows hard. dark blunts the dagger.
forgets.
how close we were. how far it is.
Wednesday
12/12/2012 01:33:00 AM
Sad Labels:
loneliness
,
math
,
physics
,
uncertainty
| Life Poems |