Eight. Nine. Ten.
Counting the hairs on my leg. Stopping at one thousand and one. Just because its close enough to zero. The abstract of a yellow light cautioning in the distance. Like the wink of a great monster with secrets to tell.
In statues made of skin. With eyes too big. We waited for the artist to return. To fondle these shapes. Manipulate the strict geometry of reason. As we had tried to do and failed. As we had imagined everyone must have done.
The child spoiled by the epiphany. The pavement scored by the sun.
I think I've woken up alone. But the sheets say different.
Take the elevator. I'll meet you there. Take the last of the daylight. I don't want to see.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
The dummy's in the courtyard. Swollen in his stance. Consoling the living with paper ladders. I'm high, but never high enough. To break the glass.
Sunday
4/01/2007 12:11:00 AM
Sad Labels:
addiction
,
alcohol
,
introspect
,
sad
you clearly walk through the world with metaphor-tinted glasses. i wonder if you can see anything in 3-dimensions? your writing does indeed carry more than the usual 3. I'm not sure how many because it's streets above me. as usual, I stick on that broken record which your writing makes me do, with that lovely old tune: 'this is wonderful, you write so well.'
nice to know you guys appreciated it. twas one of those rare zone moments when the words take over.
ruk - you sell yourself short. you write extremely well. better than i do because more people can relate to it. metaphor and imagination are nothing if they don't make those who wouldn't otherwise suddenly understand.
Post a Comment