alcoholicpoet.com

 no colors left to see. we spoil in the lingering math of seldom utopias.

all of our skin removed. we shift the bones. rearranging the splintered puzzle pieces. 

their fractured images continue to call our names. 

the nebulous proprietors of touch dig their tunnels into our flesh. the body is an auction. the highest bidder owns it.

the numbers tangle. spent by circumstance.

the truth scrapes against our grief. 

all of our words misplaced. 

impotent gods stomp their feet. as time's machines collapse. 

every open window simmers with secrets we can no longer keep. 

alcoholcpoet.com

slender corridors between yesterday and tomorrow. tunnel through us. too content in their absent bridges. 

the loud atoms of why. viciously radioactive. devour us from within. 

sometimes even nothing is too much. 

the sky collapses. just as we knew it would. all those hungry artifacts bite down. all of our monsters  humbled by dead wars. 

we shift the pieces. flesh our decaying chessboard. every touch owned by the game. 

strays caught in time's broken machine. 

wandering a maze that cannot be solved. 

wearing our lies in the tightest of knots. 

 the truth is a mountain we're too weak to climb.  

 

alcoholicpoet.com

small paths to follow. so many little things to destroy. 

we wear each other. loose skins and paper faces. heavy enough to give gravity pause. 


a listing vessel. on a shallow ocean. 

her voice full of numbers she can't reconcile. 


the lazy storm lingers. the windows stiffen. as she pretends to know when it will end. 


time draws on her veins. all the little stories she'll never tell. 

they hide in her blood and her tears. 


shards of when. those candy houses still stood. 


alcoholicpoet.com

 permanent chasms form under the bridges between our touch. savage is the telemetry that reconciles  yesterday and tomorrow. 

flesh accumulates. all bricks and blood. an ugly feast for time's vicious equations. 

we say we know. because we think that we do. 

ashes on the lips of the wind. desperate to be words. callous are the calculations that measure our choices. 

gods come and go. the truth remains. 

we knock on the doors. no one answers. we call their names. they don't respond. 

the world yawns. uninterested in our shame. 

we tug on life's zippers. stunned to reveal the hidden skeletons. 

the void bites its tongue. our voices  abandon us. 

we cut into the lie and watch it suffer. 

we say we know. but we're not even close.  

time chews on the constraints of its arithmetic. how we count. what we can add or subtract. 

the timid algebra of strays. 

we keep our purchase only by friction.  betrayed by our own skin. 

tucked sternly into the density of our stumbling decisions. 

we wear the faces of strangers. as our time machines trundle forward. on hungry zippers. 

our remains all spent. by the savage of touch. 

we tell our stories in borrowed flesh. scavengers in soiled tuxedos. 

we open our mouths to speak.  

but there are no words left. 

 the atoms were loud as she spent the last of her voices. heavy corners wore her spoiling math. 

all faded dresses and missing buttons. 

their words turned. pivoting on the levers of absent assassins. 

time gave chase. all dull fangs and matted fur. 

an impossible hunger. preening at an endless feast. 

her machines were idling. content to let her wait.  

the distance was pulling on her zippers. 

everything inside tumbling out. 

she stared at the wolf from behind a locked door. listening to his grinning ache. 

time removed its blade. 

the distance folded its map. 

the end of the world came and went. 

 still nothing changed.