Sunday 1/27/2008 12:22:00 AM

Damnable. Sure. When you consider all the fat of the wing. The point of the pencil blunted by the grace of women undone enough to know they're not wanted.

I think I know why it's so hard.

Love wants proof. Photographs of smiles. Life wants trials. Witnesses that can't remember who killed who. It doesn't matter now. Everyone's dead.

The dinosaur in the window won't go extinct because we don't remember. He's gone regardless. Her pantyhose will still be wet long after you've dried her up.

She's alive. Not just a moment for you to fondle. She's close, but not close enough to know what it is that coaxes boys into men. If that ever happens.

She puts on her shortest skirt. Imaging the eyes of strangers lost inside her. The moments composed long before she's gotten there. The dirt between her toes a trophy of sorts. As she plans her next God. In balls of thread to tight to undo. In demons too similar to angels.

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