Sunday 11/23/2008 12:51:00 AM

The quiet is feast enough. For any ghost. We'll die of starvation in this noise. Her tongue was woven from cotton. Her lips had been mulled from wine. There was no one to remember. The past exploding into bruises on her thighs. She said she was alone, but it was only a frail wish.

She was watching through a microscope often dismissed as bitterness. She was laughing as the machine came to life. It didn't go anywhere. It only left behind. All that noise. That makes us alive.

I'm a villain she said. The coward is my victim. Weak men drawn to the sound of dying. Because they mistake it for life. I lie to them. Pretend that we'll find anywhere else. Insinuating that this faulty time machine can take us anywhere we haven't already been.

That's the conundrum. We crawl into these empty skins. As if the meat inside them has somewhere else to go.

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