Friday 4/13/2012 01:01:00 AM

dead skin. eyes like anvils. the perpetual question in her cunt. the apocalypse of touch. carving out the woman from within.

at the center of the flame she hides in its cold spot. waiting for the world to end.

numbers. the evolution of when. blunt abortions of how close we were. the scarce humanity of choice. an open door. and empty pillow. the long zipper. she pulls on. to pretend she knows. or will someday soon. How many stars. How dense the darkness that surrounds them.

Every touch is a prophecy. every breath is a treason.

The series follows her. Uncertainty and science like tight gloves and absent bullets. all her voices cardboard. humbled by the storm. all of her choices buckets. collecting the rain that always falls.

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