Monday 11/26/2007 12:56:00 AM

Verdicts sublimating the accused. The drape of her lips in the zipper as it tried to close. Judgements and victims one in the same. The puzzle of her skin coming into focus. Numbers crumbling into equation's tornadoes. I can't add. I can't subtract. All I can do is walk away with what I have. And try not to worry about failing.

Who do I think I'm fooling? No one.

The shadow of the condom like cheap lipstick tinting her smile. The earthquake of her piss as she waits to wipe herself. Not clean. Just a pause between resurrections. Or deaths. I'm not sure if I know how they differ. Except I hate myself a little less when I'm coloring their halos in.

Little men in big swords. Vagina dragons to slay. Little men in the armor of women gathering their apples. A little poison is all we need to cure us.

I like the tortoise, I do. But I don't believe he's the real winner. Or even that there ever is one.

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