Friday 6/15/2007 12:26:00 AM

We laugh in haunted spasms. In cold coughs lacking breath. Crab apples to the shins of little boys running. Shoves from behind to the backs of strangers(friends). Tall on their telephone boxes. Victims of their vast imaginations.

They all fall down. Under the right amount of pressure.

They all fall down. If you're patient.

Sit on this frail branch like a nervous vulture. Long neck remembering past feasted of carrion. The bouquet of death a perfume for the hunger. Like an empty fishing hook. Or a child in her tiny bed. Lost on a ladder of nightmare. Consumed with knowing what happened in the world while she slept.

We all feed on the dead.

Just some of us do it better.

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