Monday 2/04/2013 12:47:00 AM

patterns soft to resolve. ugly seams in long dresses. time bleeds and we are born. pale infections in the open flesh of massive beasts. we are the pus that makes November wince. we are the germ that befouls April's kiss. we are disease. in its most basic form. futile. resistant. stubborn. petulant. small of individual. plentiful of horde.

when i talk to her she is always pink. bloated labia throb like twice licked lollipops. when i talk to her she is still young. pressing the button on that machine of hers. that carves the future from these hollow corpses.

the moment listens for the whisper of conceding gods. an apple in the mouth of the pig. just as the flames begin to take shape.

the shelf pretends. the rim of the world purses its lips. as if to spit us out. bitter nipples in a sea of sweet tits. the solvent sting of gasoline. digging out the oxygen. until only the shadows are left. stitches. surrender's small needles are so bold as to confront the vein.

seams in the man struggle to stay together. threads in the woman hurry to come undone. the beast whimpers. On the precipice of her thighs. humbled by their depths.

a cloud of mortals drowned in a confusion of touch. a choke of poison to make me strong. another to purchase death. her laugh like small souvenirs. from games long since lost.

we still play. but no longer keep score.

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