Saturday 2/17/2007 11:24:00 PM

She'd look for them. As she habitually cracked her jaw. The chirp of moments dead in their cradles. The slatted walls of despair that let only enough light through to see how dark it was.

Close her eyes. Tuck back her hair. Adjust the volume on the depression until it is music. Wipe the loose skin from her glasses. Brush the moisture from her eyes. In the fragments of clarity that erupt inside her chamber. Moments gather in tepid persuasions. Of all the little ghosts she's scratched with crayon. Colorful scars on the empty paper she wears as her skin.

The conciliatory accusations of impotent men. When roses fail her. When lies undress. Those bones are open to interpretation. Left to herself translating the sour monologues the curtains have kept.

In pragmatic labors they tallied the pleasure. For tax and wager. Two tongues. One lie. A soiled capsule looking over the cliff of her esophagus. As though it were a high rise. And all the drugs in her stomach a ghoulish audience applauding. As she contemplated where the bottom could be hiding.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.