Saturday 6/07/2008 12:06:00 AM

Not a thing. Knots in things. Crusty bandanges of skin. Flaking off. The butterfly in his fingers finding the wings this worm never did. Not in side. Knotted insides. The obvious hangmen.

I was silly to think of you. Or of anyone in that way. I lose sometimes to the child in me. I lose myself sometimes in the illusion of flight. Or rather that a pair of wings would be sufficient to grant me dominion over gravity. I was young. Am still sometimes. When I drink too much and listen to little.

Sex some would say is just a hole. And its plug. I guess it is. For most of us. Just pretending to love what doesn't love us. The treason of flesh pervasive. As I indulge the concept of men. Dicks too obvious. How could I ever had been tricked into thinkiing that I was close enough.

Building snowmen out of what's left of the frost. They make me warm and everything is gone. Every thing is. Stalled gods on their flimsy heavens. Waiting for constipated lions to fart.

I open my eyes again and there's nothing I haven't seen.

Nothing I have.

Nothing at all. Except the the way I remember being loved. Or at least the moments I wasted thinking that I was.

Someone else.

I throw my pebbles at the icicles. They remain. As sharp as ever. I guard the king a little too much.

And lose again.

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