Sunday 6/24/2007 11:21:00 PM

Out the window. I looked. Monsters in tuxedos drinking vermouth. And telling stories about knots in old bras. Tumblers yawning with melting ice and euphemisms for rape. Pageants of paper dolls. Cut so carefully with backward scissors. All wilting in a casual storm. Iodine turning fresh blood into vinegar. New wounds into scars.

Out the window. Little islands everywhere. Parked like cars. Clown faces on sad bones. Men undressed by the children they once loved. Each touch just a sample. A worm to catch the fish. Every word an asterisk. Anyone could've been there.

Burlap sacks are my confessions. In path and intention. They chafe what's within. Dutifully and without remorse. Clarifying the world out there.

Out the window. Proud in the darkness. My lore and my sin. My monsters. shedding their skins. Desperate Jacobs building ladders out of sex.

Climbing so high.

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