Monday 9/28/2009 01:58:00 AM

Maybe in a different utopia. One slightly less hectic than this. Perhaps in a world with less red on her lips. Or more suicides in her tampons. The scratches on the mirror. Juggle witless villains. As dead starts tumble into her lap.

The when comes later. The now is a failed trust. A contract between bone and flesh. That leaves me bankrupt. I stumble on the instructions of fearless time travellers. I stutter with the words from my past.

The graves rise. Stalling the engines. On a future of lovers that remember only dying suns. As the cloud accepted too much rain. And the axis drifted. To let the universe decide. How lost we would become.

Little bits of broken crayon. Bargaining with the colors that remain. When no one's looking. The grass seeds growing on the corpses. Ugly pajamas labor with the physics of how.

I can see this well in so much darkness.

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