the angles waiver. the geometry varies. colors. each one a pin prick. broken dolls. with their lips open. and their plastic tits. throbbing. like some seductive infection. eyes closed. counting. the pulse of the darkness. the splintered glass. where once there was the door.
she converses with her insomnia. forcing the dominoes to wither rather than fall. crumbling corners work the silhouettes. pretending to know how long the echo goes on.
counting. empty fists and bitten tongues. resolved to the density of the numbers. a stew of victims spiced with predators. as every life is. and gently simmers. until at last it boils over the edge of the pot.
she wastes years naming each blade of the green grass. assigning great depth to the smallest of cracks. because that is what people do. they relentlessly try and fail to live. until that privilege is taken from them.
rigid soldiers. foolishly throwing grenades at the wind.
the stubborn arithmetic of flesh. counting out loud. still hoping someone will hear.
Wednesday
11/13/2013 12:54:00 AM
Sad Labels:
paradox
,
retrospect
| Life Poems |