stagger the walls. stone cities bend under the weight of excess skin. tally the ash. a frenzy of hot spoils her laugh as she waits for his words to fall into her lap. bits of blood. fragments of bone. the hours tell her in short stories where the hero never wins.

paint the clock. frantic. the pantomime of touch. deaf betrays. blind conditions. the rattle of flesh. making us victims.

time holds its breath. the future chokes. breathless and dissonant. a needle lapping at the vein. always just missing it.

the drug is weak. a misunderstood monster. the world is small. a single page torn from eternity. soiled in ink. fouled by the moments that make us want.

listen to the end. the whispers as she wars the clock. numbers like thunder. hours like heroin. another storm always on the horizon.

resilient tadpoles suckle the teat of disonance. her armchair chokes. on the resolve of frail men. leathery ghosts pinned to the carbon of precious lies. delicate truths. the skid between ambivalence and addiction. soft sketches. on hard paper. each moment an envelope. desperate to be sent.

frequent atoms on a collision course. frantic molecules. hunting the edge. dead bulbs. in the basement of her flesh. dark, but still too hot to remove.

the oedipal. soft clay chases the oven. still warm enough to remember. heavy dolls weighted with choices. smiling anvils as she approaches the edge. the lie still warm in her ear.

the distance is measured in strays and poets. one road to take us far from here. the same one to bring us back.

broad strokes. the stilted ladder. stumbles toward the moon. Feet in the air. Walking on its hands. lost in the spill of touch.

elements. the scowl of when. pale monkeys playing the lottery of surrender. she doesn't ask. has no intention of knowing. but the moment answers with a silence all too telling.

the hour is soft against the sharp of her thoughts. thin cuts spoil the darkness. with the empty scales of sweat and apathy. her piglets all but one eaten. her houses all but one destroyed. the bricks that still stand, more cage than comfort.

she draws. bits of ink. tease the numbers. a tumultuous romance between probability and panic. it's always stairs. it's always down.

pale admonitions. lilting disease. the generous fever of when. deaf temples in the dirt. blind gods in the cunt. this drug as ample a paradise as any. the virus of touch. makes her ill. the cure for it makes her sicker.

the hours burns her. heavy needles hot with when. this prism of diseases will answer to her name.

broad breath. cautions the open flame. softly it stutters. like the crux of an orgasm. the soft stroke of the lie. the hard drag of the truth. each one draws the same blood from different points along the vein.

the clown is naked. his red nose fallen off. the elephant sleeps. next to the lion's cage. the circus shivers. the audience gasps. it's all a show. bright lights that go dark when no one is there.

the monkey bangs his stick. the Earth unmoved by his rage. Building his poisons in laughter and arithmetic. He closes his eyes. Pretending to dream. Though he remains awake.

Little dolls like dice. Numbers enough. To play to the game. The gentle lies of touch. Like breadcrumbs as I wander.

The monsters wear their bow ties. The villains their tuxedos. And here I am alone. Fiddling with these naked dolls.

Trapped in an epiphany of skin.

it's ugly and grey. the plunder and pitch of breaking bridges and splitting skin. the needles. full of oxygen. fail to kill. so many poisons. so very little death.

the patient numbers. construct their stratagems. awkward machines. scrape the soil for roots.

the world is pliable. pieces to fit. lazy fangs skip the artery and go for the flesh. the words are stubborn. shovelling the coal. lenient monsters. seizing her choices. the caress of the sedative. barbed dartboards. abundant with hungry targets.

the border. trembling edges. leaves lost in the fury of the wind. clutch the branch. waiting for gravity to stick its muddy needle in.

she's a liar. because that is what the numbers insist. bent nails teasing the hammer. as the walls struggle to stay up. her truth is her fortune. the way she wears it so carelessly. in pencil marks on the flesh. contrite eruptions of freedom measure her prison in doorways and windows.

the moment shudders. barely plucked strings on a never played violin. sick with a lifetime of music.

she's a sum. betrayed by the numbers. a word. where the voice is treason.

the colors. anemic gods. gather their bent bones. stale labors of touch. build simple heavens from the addiction.

breath on the window. forces her to look. inside.

words like temples. stilted with sun. the lamb on the butcher block. bloodless after so many years being cut.

the wall stumbles. tender appraisals of skin. leave us penniless. the bridge chokes on the water beneath it.

the world occurs in minutes. The heart measures in years. Disparity is a given. Her eyes are a time machine. Her sight is the dial.

maybe it's over. frayed ribbons on the floor. stalled revolving doors with hares running circles inside them. the clever tortoise free of such simple trappings.

the race is external. faces like gun shots. frighten the race into to happening. the pace is internal. i go as far as I can. The end of the world. Like otoo many clowns. In a small sedan. The end of the world. Like a time machine. Out of gas.

maybe we're beautiful. prescient butterflies. sneezing into the abyss. waiting for the tornado to realize. how thin these wings are that offer flight.

the distance overcomes her. the pale perfume of how. a stubborn time machine tracing the monsters. thick pencils. the mania of atoms. clutches to surface. spoiled to the now. it's only skin. shadows on the pale horizon of touch. broken by the gravity of desire.

she is when. the precipice of how. shouting lips. lick the edge of the world. the absence of god fills her. with possibilities. the world is distant. hungry wolves scour the darkness for missing lambs.

her time machine idles. empty smiles count. the lies she tells. to make the world real. it's all perspective. the geometry of touch. shapes her. the crass arithmetic of skin. wagers. how close she's come. to heaven.

her time machine takes her places. she never knew were there. candy houses. spread their breadcrumbs.

The world is hers to hate. Windows and all.

The empty fist. That beats. The prisoner in her ribcage kicking. Pictures and animals. Numbers and skin. The math is as ugly as it's ever been.

Listening. To that skipping record. I am.

The crippled dogs. The paper heavens. All taken by the wind.

Her eyes like matchsticks. Burn briefly. A needle in the darkness. Virulent for a thread. The hours turn. In their sickness. The orbit of confession. Discovers choices in all the wrong places. The pattern. Empty swings. Soft gardens. Sharp with the seeds of suicide. The years pretend. Choices heavy with absent gods.

Hungry wolves. Hide their fangs. Plastic eyes conceal their sight. Vision comes in kaleidoscopes. Fractal. Anxious. sharp blades close to the throat.

The fist. Pounds in her head. A thunder of blood. A whisper of flesh. The world counts out loud. Arrogantly assuming someone is listening.

She's a little pig. Arguing with the wolf. She's helpless. Inside her brick house. As the walls come tumbling in.

I blink and I am asleep. Near enough to death to envy it. Helplessly alive. An agitated mongrel licking the ass of heaven. Slightly sweeter shit is still a better meal than usual.

I watch her dream. The density of her mania compressed. Into the paper thin sheaf of skin that possesses her touch. She suffers because she is too many things. A monster. Senile with the anatomy of its madness. An angel. Too stubborn to see. Paradise is lost.

There is chase. As I watch her run. A tiny thread unfurling to a lifetime of villains. The forest as close as it is distant. The trees like equations. Differentiating her thoughts. The leaves like oxygen. Falling. Giving everything weight.

The pelt of gravity as it eclipses virtue. The requisite conditions of the race. Sweat and tears and choking abdomens. Thick with the empty arithmetic of men.

I blink and I am awake. Nervously fondling that sexy precipice. Hating gravity for making me afraid to jump.

Blue dogs with their brown tails wagging. Like Solomon faced with impossible divisions. The arc of atom across her stare. Sharp and delicate. Like the blood from a tourniquet. Limbs waiting to fall off.

The choice touches the surface of the question. Shattering the skin. Ripples cascade. Deaf thunder. Mute apocalypse. Soft dolls in their soiled rags. Stitched smiles coming off.

I wasn't prepared for how far he'd go to illustrate his loneliness. A gentle beast with claws made of lead.

She loves in chokes. Fighting the clutch of a stubborn transmission. She lives in taradiddles. Rhythm raging against the impossible eclipse of silence. The lazy oracle of her skin pointing. Dismissing the treasure.

Her eyes like a billboard. Her lips like scissors. Cutting.

Dead or dying. The cut vein fails to bleed. Now that the heart has stopped beating. The tree is naked. Now that the autumn has come. Stolen. All its leaves. Eternity's spoiled mistress. Humble and unrecognized. Spits and stomps.

Long needles in short veins. The pleasure of why. It hurts. Like thunder. Trundling clouds. Punch the path. Scrape the flesh. Time's cold mason. Gathering his bricks.

Gentle walls define manic paths. Lost comes in gasps. Leave in fits. Like dying. And being revived. A maze of choices sick with skin. The wolf. The animal. The beast. The fairy tale warns. But I don't listen.

The broken flame. Parts to let her through.

the monsters dance. arrogant gnomes. flaunt the uncertainty. of weak men. weaker still. by their conditions. she chases the train. every word a hungry locomotive. she follows the tracks. as if she can keep up.

the ghosts whisper and she tries to listen. but she can't hear as well as they do.

long walks. like taut tourniquets. little pigs. brick houses. choices in straw.

Urgent ducklings chase phantom swans. Life advertised in thunder. Rumbles, but seldom strikes. Torn boots taste her feet. Like the pollen from dead flowers. Determined to live again.

The bridge opens. She circles. Watching the world slip through the hole. The edge always as close as it is distant. She imagines how far she might go. If her legs were willing. If the road were negotiable.

A lazy moon caught in the gravity of a stagnant planet. Easy witches and tender wolves. Ruin the story for the hero.

The liar turns. Patent white ghost. Coins all counted. Trenches solved. The math waits for her to acknowledge the decimal. So many leftovers.

The future finds her. Before she does it. A goblin in cold shoes. Pretending to know how long it's been. Since anything mattered.

Flesh like thunderstorms. Empty and loud. Blood like ghosts. Dead enough. The simple poison of touch. Begins to solve her.

there is that hole. terribly permanent. the sculpture of woman. hollow as it were. as it must be so. the empty vessel of life. echoes false without something growing inside it.

it's sad how they struggle to fill that void. the pieces fit. to be sure. but the picture is incomplete.

she scribbles. in puke and xanax. a fatal poetry. as if there is any other kind. she slips into that dress. a foul princess. eager to bleed.

the words betray. ticking clocks. the future arriving sooner than anticipated. every touch a target. Every breath a siege. this skin is a war. this flesh is a treason.

there is peace in addiction. there is cure in death. everything else is only ghosts. Marley's rattling their chains at indifferent Scrooges.

the dream wakes her up. choices. like needles full of heroin. choices stab the vein.

everything is empty. everyone is a stranger.

and she falls in love with the anonymity. hungry for the dirt that surrounds their graves.

the world measures men by their wounds.

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.

levels. cycles. broken dogs slip out of their leashes. to chase the nothing that teases them.

time is a window. and they stare in at me through its fractured glass. blind monsters. search for their eyes. in the graveyards of the deaf. find only prisoners. content with their cells. madmen. chasing the path of dry river beds.

condemned. saturn solves. jupiter questions. the earth merely catalyst. for a lifetimes of questions.

wearing the numbers. debating the flesh. a treaty of poisons negotiates her decisions. she's a child. she's a woman. she's a eulogy in pencil. humbled by the finality of death.

she alseep. eyes open. she's dreaming. awake. she's knotted rope. letting them climb her. too close to the ceiling to know what progress they're making.

turning right. going left. the scattered topography of addicts and poets. content in her prison. familiar with its walls. the illusion of freedom obvious. the jaws of the crocodile open. light bulbs burning in the dark. selfish words confessing. how hungry the atoms are. to react. harness the epiphany of the quantum.

her pencil blunted. her paper dark. this lie constantly telling us.like choking on the truth.

her straw house. defeated by the wolf. a weak metaphor. for the distance that spoils her rage. little lies. change so much.

the small lies. exempt from the flow of time. peddle their songs. to the dead.

undone by choices.

soft darts. lick the bulls eye. patient kisses. lazy target. each moment is an equation. I've never solved. it begins as it must end. helpless and arrogant. demanding and useless. venom hungry for veins. fangs eager for flesh. monsters with wagging tails. saints with hard dicks.

it's all about counting. how close. how far. crippled rabbits. missing paws lucky elsewhere. eager tortoises. crawling as fast as they can. determining the difference. it's all about ignoring the results. focusing on the components.

time in lengthy staircases. the dank cellars from which it arises. time in rented tuxedos. and crashing the parties we weren't invited to.

the poison always dominates. matchstick bridges across an inferno. the steps try to teach us. But the aggregate is all we know. we burn. tilting towers fouling the sun.

the night pretending to wear her and she tries it on. small cuts in the curtain. that separates. lovers and strangers.

she flies at the terminal velocity of if. one edge. dulled by confidence. one blade. only a broken handle to hold. the paraffin. the melting wax. stubborn ghosts. beating a thunder of shadows. in the myth of an absent grief.

the quake of her eyelids. the hunger of sleep. as she drifts. further from the puzzle. Closer to the solution. the answer she would scrape from its fractured limbs. bits of blood. chunks of skin. a stew pot of saviors all drenched in eager corpses. all too patient funerals. ripe with earnest ghosts.

the hurried grin. the stench of now. weak and petulant. like sirens in the ghetto. the homicide of touch. frail and angry and confident. an empty ambulance.

fatigued under an abundance of when. counting the steps. between god and poison. chasing the world. on brittle crutches. calculating the distance. between suicide and addiction.

she runs. lips open. eyes wide. the world in front of her striking like lightning bolts. she sings. she dances. scribbling in the mud. as the storm approaches.

the blunt of the needle speaks in whispers. hissing strays. scratch at the hand with the meat in it. dull blades. a gentle trickle of meth. slow down this dying. stretch it out like a rubber band. tighter. thinner. as I wait for it to snap.

her muddy rainbow. all the colors running together. her quiet stage. all dialogue forfeit.

there is an end. a knot at the end of that thread. a long confession of poisons. hesitant, but willing.

there are no monsters. they were only excuses. the small flame burns just as hot as the biggest inferno. the dead things sleep not in the graves we've dug for them. But keep us awake. as we shed the burden of those skins.

the counsel of drugs begs her live. for one more taste. of that foul heaven. paradise is the worst kind of treason.

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.