Saturday 7/28/2012 12:52:00 AM

cowards and pigs. so alike. heavy machines. delicate operations. the low moon measures her grip. knowing she holds nothing. the staircase turns on its side. a marathon of choices. like dull razors fucking worn cunts.

violence like poetry. scratches. scrapes its way across her skin. the arithmetic of hunger much more colorful than she thought. fractions of knowing. what you had. decimals closer to what you want.

the fray of monsters. sharp claws. useless in this soft grass. the choke of the wind as it teases the glass. Desperate for a grain of sand. to give it presence. Something they can see. Know it is real.

Too many windows. seldom places. she hurries. Urged by the silence. The sweep of surrender. Quietly narrates.

empty pages. broken bindings.

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