Monday 2/09/2009 01:16:00 AM

His hands. Like a lampshade over the sun. Men never recognize the dark until women point it out to them.

I was discussing with the molecules. The ramifications of the switch. Future. Past. Going is only a metaphor for never having left. On or off. All the same to the gods in our underwear.

The fountain of her breasts not stopping. Though my thirst remains unquenched. Patents on how the moon cracks. To allow the wolf to grow his fangs back.

Pigs for dinner. In beds of straw. Her tits laugh at my eager penis. Empty red hoods leave their baskets. The child waiting for the axe.

Mercy arrives in small glitters. Dead stars I'm only just now learning once existed. The future is then. We were. Clasps on the volcano. Quiet eruptions. Wait for the clock to catch up.

With layers of skin. So much more science than touch. randomly fiddling with buttons. That know so much more than than we do. Daring the future to find all the things we have lost.

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