Saturday 12/23/2006 12:14:00 AM

In the stiff oasis that is skin. We waded. Sirens in every breath. Hairs at the back of our throats tickling the words. Strangers to each other in every sense of the term. Snobbish patrons of the art called loneliness. We bent down in silence to get a closer view of the catastrophe occuring. The oasis of touch was voided by the tremble of vision.

Counting by twos. the cruel antonyms sprouting in our rows of eden. Assuming every apple had been poisoned.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.