He was soaking into his words. Like a hot bath tenderizes one's skin. Fastens a tether to all things urgent. Making everything as casual as the most meanningless sexual encounter.
The moment yanked the glasses from its face in a show of offense. Reveailing the little dents they had made where they cosntantly rested upon its nose. There was the sound of beds being made in the background. Sheets moaning to cover oversized mattresses. As the laundry trundled down the stairs in weak plastic baskets. She dressed herself anew. Washing up the coffeee dripped with a clean white sock. Sneaking into the sanctuary of the bathroom to take an inventory of her experience.
She glanced at him through the space between the door and the jamb. There was print all over his blank stare. She was always writing. Culling the plot from pinches of skin.
She was constantly imagining the grief the dagger must feel as it breaches the flesh.
Thursday
12/28/2006 11:04:00 PM
Sad Labels:
introspect
,
sad
crisp and murderous tone to this. again and again I sound like a stuck record, but there are some superb lines in this one. That first paragraph is particularly stunning.
heya!
i came to this blog via veronica's on lonelyroads.
i agree with the poster above, there is a very... visceral? vibe to this poem which I like.
I especially like the line "There was print all over his blank stare"
ruk: nice to hear from you again. always value your input.
am anxiously awaiting the next installment of your infinity tale.
mp: ah yes, veronica's blog is great. thanx for giving mine a look see. thanx for the compliments. i'll have to have a peek at your blog now for sure.
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