Tuesday 8/17/2010 01:30:00 AM

Her eyes adjust. To the obstinance of her stare. A deaf bell rings. The sound caught in its hollow. She chases the stairs. Up. Then down. Finding no difference. Only stern consoles. Their buttons ablaze with choices. And empty clothes where the people used to be.

There are moons. This she knows. But she cannot find them. There are clouds thick with rain. But parched she is. Closed eyes hidden in the heavens. No longer looking. All those window painted dark. The world outside them lost.

The pauses tempt. The numbers lure. With vague experiments. And a series of skin more wolf than woodsman. She tries on the ax. Heavy, but still appropriate. And the beast. A hunger. Almost religious. A thirst as vast as any desert.

Peeling away the bandage from her cunt. She finds some blood inside. But mostly scars.

And empty spaces.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.