Tuesday 9/18/2007 01:01:00 AM

On her toadstool. With the flies buzzing about her vagina. thick legs snatch their dinner from the cloud of biting insects sucking at her insides. The needle goes in both directions. The poison flows just as well from host to parasite. Clumped on her toadstool. In kneads of self. The fable tells her to bet on the tortoise, but experience tells her most morals lie.

The world sways slightly to one side. In little sips. And in big ones. The pillows stiffen under her head. A lonely prelude to sleep.

Inside her bucket. With every peek through the hole gravity steals another eye.

What is there to see? What is there to find. The empty cooking classes of citrus housewives. Their angry uterus's sick with fertility pills. The orphaned bottles of scotch that make us remember the men who helped them make us.

problem was. we never hated each other enough to tell truth. Never loved one another enough to lie.

spit was greeting card enough. For any kind of occasion. yesterday was as far into the future as we were willing to go.

drunk was only a metaphor regarding misplaced underwear. Paper hearts scribbled into all her bras. A frenzied Picasso in each of her orgasms. Her life stripped down to only the colors. Brushes full of pigment left to harden beside the pencils she'd drawn them with.

drunk was just our only way of saying I love you. All of our best friends were made of latex.

Perfect enough for me.

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