Thursday 10/13/2011 11:44:00 PM

patterns. the wake of the seed. as drought ensues. angles make their marks in pliant skins. the geometry of sex is there are only parallels. no intersections. sharp corners that squeeze us too close. shapes confessing we don't fit.

fingers see much better than eyes. the weakness. in strokes of skin. jack rabbits kissing foxes running from huntsmen. thighs learn so much quicker than heads. the parody. of love. that uses us.

it's a commodity of flesh. that finances this living. just listen. disappear into the quiet fury of failing bridges.

there is freedom in that grave. the dead draw their maps. through our madness. alone. the journey through it is all we have.

it's magic. a dense grimoire of touch. that works its spells. wakes the dead. convinces the deaf that they can hear its music.

it was always there. we're just only now learning that we can dance to it.

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