she wore her utopia in faded t-shirts and bleached dungarees. a callous ceremony of lacquer and vitriol. the distance grew fond of her. the spoiled chemistry of loss. and the quiet apocalypse of want. no colors. only the outlines. as the graves vomit their ghosts. time stumbling backward in a defiant surrrender. no flesh. only bones. the desperate arithmetic of the impotent gods. .
she took her turns slow and deliberate. stiff cunt. loose tits. a woman of choice in a world of ifs.
the seasons solved for when. crooked pedestals for any number of epiphanies. shakey ladders for any consolation of sins.
the abyss adjacent to the pinnacle. as it has always been. the absurd calamity of touch. its eager catapult trembling with expectation. its nervous aim bright, but broken.
the world approached. as it usually did. in lingering hiccups and hollow pauses. its wrinkled maps and indifferent treasures as lost as they've ever been.
the laugh of the wind. the slap of gravity. in the miles that bite down. devour what remains of our moments.
we are small. diminished. all teacups and sugar. struggling in the sour of choices. stories pushing against the wind.
we are pennies. cast off to fountains. the rigid poison of sober spoiling every wish.
Wednesday
8/12/2015 11:39:00 PM
| Life Poems |