Saturday 12/16/2023 12:08:00 AM

the apple is bitten. its meat is exposed. a sloping confession. somewhere between chaos and utopia.  

our eyes scratch the glass. time's blunt soldiers keep their march. 

small pieces. swaying bridges that dare us to cross. 

the folds make their creases. in the economy of broken skin. we leverage our exchanges. against the void that chases us. 

straw houses give way to bricks. but their contents stay the same. 

the flesh is pierced. the fruit is soured. 

yet we swallow it still. 

because we are always hungry.



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