Monday 6/03/2013 12:41:00 AM

the distance becomes her. quiet scars  draw their maps. in fraying veins. the world ends every night. with a whimper and a piss. a dull blade on the wrist of time. the scraping measures of if. dew on  a cactus. her life a long and unsuccessful suicide.

the moments spend her. odd coins and rumpled bills. flesh is a franchise. the soul is a commodity. but i have noting left to invest in this failed human enterprise.

the ceiling is too close. the wallss are too thin. broken is all they notice.

the distance defines her. feet. years. seconds. explosives hidden in each encounter.

i am born again. into a strange place. left alone to learn. or die in the process.

the dying suits me. the finality and the confusion. a wonderful distaster of punctuation and arithmetic.

like a tombstone waiting for the words to tame it.

0 comments:


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