Friday 8/14/2009 12:37:00 AM

Her skin like cinema. Quick to tell. Impossible to edit. Saved its stories. For someone else. Her touch was patient. As it sought the tortoisee.

The white coat on the rabbit stifling its tail.

The running. Daft parades scream the larva in various stages of growth. Life cycles. In loud grunts. From an empty engine.

The world is small from this distance. Little men with their wagging penises. Imagine their time machines. In humming pussies and failing urges. The moment is the drug. As she rolls her shoulders.

Woken up. Somewhere she doesn't belong. Chasing numbers that don't add up.

I'm naked again. Dowsed in the sweat of malfunctioning machines. Like a hungry wolf. Huffing and puffing at laughing pigs.

The bad girl pushes the door closer to the window. And then she cries. For all her broken sticks.

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