Logical Manias

Testing the terminal with bits of men. That's the only kind there really are. The robot in her underpants racheting his dick tighter in. She's a window. A fragment of moonlight on the eyelids of the blind. The universe in bitter gulps on lemondade. The sugar teasing from between her tits.

You're never too old to to regret losing someone.

But they might be lost contrary to your remorse.

You're never too old to hate yourself. Or to be hated.

Tiem has its kindness. The give of young skin. The press of memory intent to fulfill the wish.

Of lonely people. Tall windows in blind houses. Arguing with the rooms. Beds that won't listen. Nervous pillows pretend to want that stranger that are left.

The glass. In fractions. Gods that can't see through. All the lies I have to tell to keep heaven close.

Trusting still in the logical manias of discarded skin.