Friday 4/04/2008 01:11:00 AM

Greeting the infection in pieces of when. The tumors. People. Blind intersections. The puzzle between her legs finally making sense. Quantum physics for the common person. It was the future all along. Otherwise this couldn't have been.

No need for clowns in grave makeup to persuade the children that they can't recall. They're already frightened. No hems. The dress has always been short. She was just wearing it wrong. Touch. Like rubber bands. So eager to break just for the chance to hurt someone.

The coward is certain. He's been there. On magic carpets some call sex. Because it aches too much to have actually been.

In the past. Buried under piles of dinner plates that still wreak of flesh not tasted.

There is your past if you must have one. The faulty ledger that still insists we can afford tomorrow.

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