Wednesday 1/07/2015 12:21:00 AM

angles she screamed. like someone had been waiting . that there was a question. waiting patiently for an answer.

degrees. they are everything and nothing. a measure and a void. the rank therapy of poets and drunkards in the last throes of relevance.

she had already spent her youth on squat romantics and sputtering time machines. they had been both impressive and pathetic. a dull pendulum in her gut swinging mercilessly. to the rhythm of terrorists and thieves.

the pages scraped and moaned. prisoners in a war of flesh.

time coughed. sick with the premise of her. a fattening tick on its ripest vein.

the hours came. in an orgasm of pain. the years. like children skipping rope. monotony her only sanctuary.

a ribbon. on a gift. the knot at the center of  the bow. slowly coming undone.

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