Parables debate their language. with sharp hooks through the pelvis. The dark is dominion more than mystery. Folds in the cancer. Scraped knees as the boxes shout their numbers. Small stones to pick up. If I can still reach them.
Making the bed. In creases of spoiled men. The jaundiced sex. Excitement enough. For the monkey thumping his stone. His dick the gavel. As the verdict is read.
The veiled incest. That draws the maps. The cumulative. Of ambitious clocks. Paused on the siren. Dead children. In the narrowing orbit of her uterus. Dark keys. That only unlock empty drawers.
She's had so many conversations with the wolf. Vague fairy tales. Arrogant with blood. She has carried the basket so far. Only to be astonished by the weight of its emptiness.
She knows it's still dark, though the light may be present. She fills in their graves with bland theories about the future. Going there is easy. Getting back not so much.
Sill nudging those demons. With an obvious agenda. Breadcrumbs everywhere. Leading back to the beginning.
The witch. Tempting us. With her candy houses. Killing arrives in dented boxes. But regardless, they are mine.
Sunday
6/28/2009 01:50:00 AM
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