Concede Her the Parable

Caution is the traitor. She works her breasts. As any woman would. Like steam engines barreling through barren landscapes. No stopping. No waiting for passengers. Just the scenery. Distant mountains of dick. Dimpled with unripe cum. Bad men on their best behavior. Rogue time machines coax a smile from bitter lips. The hacksaw in the growing folds of his skin. Begins to cut. It goes away. And comes back again. So abruptly. Missing pieces do the math. The remaining ones build the apparatus.

Travelling time is easy. It's the getting back to where I started that puzzles me.

The fountain at the back of his neck. Spewing. Victims. Old pennies lost in too many wishes he'll never grant. Old women. The scrape of pantyhose coming off without permission. Old men. Soft men. In thick casts. Pretending to be broken.

Time heals her in ways unexpected. The future arrives in gobs of phlegm. And she shallow each without ever thinking about the consequence.

All that sickness working its magic in the many dormitories of her skin. The relentless ambivalence of liars. A stubborn and cruel friend.

Tomorrow on the rim of the glass. Yesterday in the seam of her dress. As she discards it for truths far less ambiguous.