Thursday 10/09/2014 12:55:00 AM

the dead leaves have their voice. soft and diligent. like how the rain falls. and the storm approaches. the stubborn angles that discover her. all chaos and confidence. under the flicker of dying bulbs.

measuring the conflict. in flattened pennies and open bridges. circling. cheating patience in stutters and sobs. waiting for the surface to return.

the paper creases. eager distortions wager their symmetry. on an arithmea of pornography and science fiction. whores riding their time machines. poets beating their madmen. nowhere we haven't already been.

a temporary vein. a permanent poison. such is the nature of how. skin. sick with itself.

the tumbling moments. each one. all of them. forever. going over the edge.

the shapes emerge. hard outlines boast their conflict.  an infinite suicide. the moment resolves to the pale complexion of if. like dirty water. and the quiet thrist that compels us to drink from it.

growing louder.

a thief. the confession. the riot of flesh. the dubious hours that consume. these manic tsars of touch.

all the words are starngers. all the hours are spent.

on petty wars. where there is no winner. a pinprick of ecstacy.

2 comments:
Desiree said...

Your poems r always so mysterious and darkly beautiful and deep

fancier atoms said...

thx



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