Sunday 7/12/2009 11:59:00 PM

Stubborn chalkboards cling to the dust. The monster. In his tattered dress. Asks her to dance. The tired musicians. Continue to play for them. Though the song is old. They dig their own graves in the pillows.

Arguing with blind devils. Over theoretical hells. The allure of dead bulbs. To the decay of skin. The disease must come first. And then the cure can be discovered. That is the nature of touch. Or rather, the feeble way it can be used by creatures. too weak to harness.

Bitter ghosts rape the porch lights. Ugly dogmas rig the switch. The perfect time machine is one that doesn't work at all, but convinces you it has. A chorus of redemption far away enough. That all this dying seems appropriate.

Warning the duckling. In softer words that she can usually muster. Adjusting the gape of heaven's maw. To let the demons live. Just a little longer.

Until it's safe to die again.

Finding those colors in the dark. Determined. To prove they still exist.

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