the years are soft. like melting ice cream. frail splints stuttering the bone. bashful monsters with their claws caught in the curtains. Every moment larger than the space it occupies. Patches of skin like pirates. Grabbing anything it can. The gentle monster trying to reason with eulogies and vultures. No numbers. Just engines. In the throes of the future. Injecting truths she's only recently discovered.
the net like crayons. frail colors.. soft tips. eager artists. the candy house is eaten and the witch is still waiting on her dinner. the monster calls her by name. in the vague transition from choke to vomit.
a warehouse of skin. distributing touch. in empty paychecks.
the rabbit. searching for its missing foot. in turbulent closets and anxious drugs.
she sees. with her hands. with her hips. every other part of her is blind. but she's still looking.
the vein is small. the venom is weak. gods like light bulbs burned too hot. broken filaments and spreading darkness. she's gentle with the button. as she presses for the cure. as devoted to her disease as any addict.
lazy gods with their heavens in their back pockets. dropping breadcrumbs we'll not follow.
Thursday
5/03/2012 01:27:00 AM
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