Wednesday 2/01/2012 12:11:00 AM

yellow. lost eyes and stolen limbs. forward. dead hours. wingless vultures. picking at the carrion. burnt lollipops. to choke on.

red. born again. helpless and needing. into a soup of foul flesh. and desperate confession. plastic lips stoke the fever that boils below at the back of her throat.

limp dolls do their dance. without a song. their stage broad. their curtain drawn. and no one listening.

her thighs cinnamon. her tears coriander. biology defeats her. and she is just a woman. scanning the darkness for the words to explain. what is missing.

the flame is patient. the flesh is not. quaint bridges left open. to let the tall ships pass through. how small we are the only lesson. that crowd of gods and demons has blessed us with.

the steep of skin. brews hot. a hemorrhage of lullabies. bleeds the process. like broken fingers. reaching for bigger sticks. the lie overwhelms her. and she confesses. that nothing has changed. she's as weak as she's ever been..

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