tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-177043332008-07-07T02:10:26.996-04:00aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comBlogger1344125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-88440434921812583952008-07-06T01:09:00.004-04:002008-07-07T00:41:59.828-04:00

Shit-faced gods drink the urine. Old men pissing themselves and fetuses miscarried. Dead mothers cradle cracking dolls. Inhaling life in the failed nature of trust. Science never planned far enough ahead to account for so much loneliness. She argues with the darkness as she would anyone so stubborn as to think that she isn't aware of everyone. People. Needles. Their threads swimming through her

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-62896617386945602042008-07-04T23:50:00.003-04:002008-07-05T00:16:29.793-04:00

Come the saints in manic pause. Laden with paradise obese. And starving doors. Play. With broken toys in hollow rooms where no one talks. Children lost in over sized skins. Rewinding the highs of crashing Edens. Face the bed. Coax the choice. In stumbles of trust that inevitably betray delicate demons. Not as evil as they thought they were. Trace the wrinkles in the dark with a heavy finger.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-7484277615230991322008-07-01T00:32:00.004-04:002008-07-02T00:10:52.403-04:00

The quantum of her frown. The mechanics of her stare. Dimensions discovered. Time travel in the purest sense. We go back. We remain here. Stretched between the world we exist in and the one we remember once lived in us. I don't have a shadow where I am. Just men masquerading as equations. Plus. Minus. Exponents. There is no light from above to mark my stand. But I know I am standing here. Not

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-70323390890057583852008-06-30T00:56:00.005-04:002008-07-01T00:06:24.514-04:00

In that abyss. The holes in her head propagating. Splinters of sound. Fidget under her skin. People. Fierce infections of touch determined to find her weakness. She is not immune to lonely men. Nor sad men. But she often confuses them with the manipulative ones. The canyon. The endless pit falling into my hands. Relentless downpours of nothing. Drown failing fists. Until I am incapable of

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-59958087563300772712008-06-27T23:59:00.003-04:002008-06-28T00:38:06.617-04:00

The color of finger tips was quite pink when she reached out to grab the last brick in the little pig's fallen house. The wolf she whispered to herself is not deterred by mortar. Nor defeated by logic. I don't remember who I had been. Before the moon fell from the sky and the whole of the earth became silent. I can't recall if there was, infact, a life before this. Or whether I would want it

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-74662252317974732272008-06-23T01:51:00.003-04:002008-06-25T01:19:40.261-04:00

Maybe next time, she wheezed. As the cum erupted between her legs. All the sounds in her head. Vomiting at once. After a long frat party of men. It's their cures I find offensive. Seducing the diseases. The banalities of profit. We are cartoons. Their anvils falling on us. We are pop up story books. Grim fairy tales saving ungrateful princesses. Overwhelmed by the option of giving up. Dormant

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-3810939456064905892008-06-21T23:53:00.006-04:002008-06-23T00:12:52.056-04:00

The lie. The bitter acumen. Of taste. Sermons of poison. Try to explain. What I don't understand. About this body. The bait not withstanding. The hook still through my lip. Waiting to be thrown back. Suffocating in the process. This life. In failing increments. The balance. Not absolving. Masks too thick. Gods pretending to listen. As the locomotive buckles under the strain of the stop. The

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-7935383804418553652008-06-20T23:49:00.002-04:002008-06-21T00:07:52.723-04:00

The little kick from inside the big belly of the darkness. Incubating. The fetus. The hungry child of nothing determined to be born. The longest day. Digesting. Breathing skin. Thundering chests. Roaring eyelids. The shortest night. The few words said. The miscarriage. Birth happens only as collateral damage. Life assumes it is self-evident. The insect thinks the world is small. However far it

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-76566452935675441202008-06-20T00:12:00.005-04:002008-06-21T22:26:48.279-04:00

At twelve years old she discovered herself. In the shadow of the clothes she'd taken off. It was years still before she would find there was a whole world out there. Beside herself. Full of girls better off without their clothes and men inclined to assist. Say what you will about the lottery, someone wins. Sure, everyone else loses. It's like life that way. Not that dying would be any

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-31658092761081234952008-06-18T01:12:00.003-04:002008-06-18T01:27:12.540-04:00

One color more. Sheets coming undone. In fits of skin. As if we were alive once. Or something similar. More than just time in its infinite travels. Or the remnants its fire leaves behind. Just colors. Dots anticipating the sun. In sharp bends of light that break too often. What was easy is hard again. Preachers on the pulpit blame Satan. But I know, amongst us the devil is innocent. I see

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-54731036432688909712008-06-17T00:59:00.004-04:002008-06-17T08:41:56.737-04:00

Spiders on the porch. Darkness wakes the web. Laughing through her fear. Her embarrassment at having been born. In stages full and bright with she tries on the threat. Patient to let it consume her. Her eyes exploding with people. Parachutes of skin that navigate her fall. The bile of hope fouls her dress as her cloud wretches. She continues to climb. Noticing too late that the steps to the

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-19159150349778483912008-06-16T01:40:00.004-04:002008-06-17T00:55:54.696-04:00

Everywhere I am. Sultry lies in the cough of skin. As if I could go that far. In either direction. See you there. Make sense of these long equations we call touch. Ants on the cake. Cockroaches in the frosting. The ensuing explanations of dead men. Long novels searching for characters. The density of inhibition convincing me that time was mistaken. Them. Overhearing. Every minute of until.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-34315181427500957562008-06-16T00:33:00.004-04:002008-06-17T00:58:38.462-04:00

The pig smiled. Bloody. Lacking cheeks. Laughed loud. Through crispy skin. Feeble are the moments that insist on this life happening. Dead snakes sifting with poison. Wearing the fangs. Flaunting the footprints. In frozen eyes. Seeing. In thick ears tempted to hear. Fat tongues. Trying to say. Everything. Is strange. Lies I wish to live. Sheets I cannot replace. Though they are stained.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-63356739539697829642008-06-15T00:40:00.004-04:002008-06-15T01:21:46.116-04:00

Gentle is the anxious skin. Irreversible conditions of the flesh. Faces like ice cream melting. Sticky, sweet dead things luring the scavengers. Doll's eyes and vultures necks. Empty clothes at the foot of the bed paraphrasing the wrench of my toes as I slip into that familiar conundrum of touch. Naked time lines. And the people who would flaunt them. Not afraid. Not deterred by. Consequence.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-21003369577299530452008-06-14T00:58:00.006-04:002008-06-15T00:40:04.787-04:00

Remembering dead volcanoes. The rain on the glass not deciding which image was real. She threw all her photographs away. To begin again. With nothing. It's the best way to start. The only way to end. Seldom as we are. Perfect theorum in the calculations of Pythagarus. The geometry of touch yielding to the formula of division. Even those small clouds can make it rain. Even little claws are

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-20090298245463860382008-06-13T00:43:00.004-04:002008-06-13T01:04:04.610-04:00

Long movies at the back of her throat. Silent ones. In black and white. The dialogue of demons unheard. Yet obvious. Waking up is the hardest part of falling asleep. Closing her eyes. Hoping they won't ever open. Resting the bottle beside her words. Wondering. If anyone has heard. The sound. Of letting go. The aliens under her skin. Searching for a logic. The time machine in her fingertips

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-14655588757927236382008-06-12T01:17:00.005-04:002008-06-12T23:31:58.581-04:00

Something like falling asleep. And also like waking up. Trying on the meat. Her underwear red. Her bra too loose. I don't know. Don't want to know. What I haven't seen since this blindness. Mousetraps at the edge of my world killing anything capable of finding the cheese. I'm over. I'm already done a long time ago. Puppets are left. So to their strings. I can't stop them from making me dance.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-14408059369966351002008-06-12T00:31:00.003-04:002008-06-12T01:12:49.671-04:00

Years she said. With Vaseline in her eyes. Cloudy and slick with a devastating permanence. Dimes in the washer waiting to be found. Ten more wishes I'll never get to make. Clothes on the floor looking too much like I'm still in them. Breathing in the stabs of moonlight that slither through vinyl and glass bars. Moments that strut out the front door only to later sneak in the back. Shame.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-44213561511506413812008-06-09T23:49:00.003-04:002008-06-10T00:54:20.243-04:00

The air shrugged hard. Scraping loudly over her breasts. The confection of her skin laced with sour bits. She walked. Paced. In the small span of her decision. Elastic moments snapping back. Calendars in her chest erupting with the future. Withering with the past. Everything gone. Nothing forgotten. The air not noticing. The chisel in her head. Carving. Culling yellow from crimson. In puddles

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-39683751402323637102008-06-09T01:15:00.003-04:002008-06-10T01:17:06.367-04:00

Yesterday still on her list of clothes to wear. Before she gets old. The matador. The sad songs. With heavy horns. The red cape between her thighs. Doses of anger. Sneaking into the cures. The brainwash comes in stilted intervals. I'm free because they say I am. I'm happy because that is what we are. The cardboard of her lips not retaining the words I'd written upon dirty cheeks. The smother

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-70055210343726340062008-06-08T01:19:00.003-04:002008-06-08T01:40:11.491-04:00

Ripe cold sores accuse her lips. Of saying too much. Hearing nothing she begins her journey again. The start and the end interchangeable amalgams better suited to the chemistry of touch. Girl. Woman. Child. I wish I knew the difference. You can live hard on the quarry of defeated men. Or you can live softly in the velveteen of cowering addicts. It's not the choice that's hard. It's the

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-58933602612632707572008-06-07T00:06:00.005-04:002008-06-08T01:08:33.681-04:00

Not a thing. Knots in things. Crusty bandanges of skin. Flaking off. The butterfly in his fingers finding the wings this worm never did. Not in side. Knotted insides. The obvious hangmen. I was silly to think of you. Or of anyone in that way. I lose sometimes to the child in me. I lose myself sometimes in the illusion of flight. Or rather that a pair of wings would be sufficient to grant me

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-77118022958385174162008-06-06T00:31:00.003-04:002008-06-06T00:49:18.646-04:00

Lie, she said. You always do it. Feet. Toes. Fingers. Pretending to know what they feel. Take me back, he said. I've gone too far. The future is passed. And there is no place for me to exist. I'm dead before I was born. I could save myself, but I won't. Guilty wagers in between. That life and this one. Seams in the teddy bear favor the stitch. But I've lost my needle. I guess it's easy to

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-32310971736039863822008-06-05T00:08:00.003-04:002008-06-05T00:33:12.747-04:00

The boomerang. Life constantly coming back. I'm only aware of everything. And nothing. That's what's wrong with me. Sleep is loud. Charcoal eyelids breathe their methane. Insinuating explosions. The surface. The bomb. Completely innocent. I hold the match.. I wait. For the world to blink. But it's never does. Chewing loudly. I listen for the cartilage to ask. Where the bones have gone.

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-87284763105583636492008-06-03T00:02:00.003-04:002008-06-03T00:31:36.481-04:00

Lanterns. Burning light. Trapped in glass. Saying we were sorry to the cards. As they careened across the carpet. Deals we made long ago. Asthma of the cunt. Suffocating tired tongues. Speeches. Rafts. Going over the falls. In barrels made of skin. Seldom is the beginning. Too often is the end. Madness is living just to live. Genius is knowing when to die. The sewer in his kiss. Searching

aphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.com