the rabbit coughs. hungry muscles tease the sun. the fall paints her. a series of colors. each one darker than the last. permanent ink on transient skin. a paradox of temptations. thick with choking zippers and blunted needles.

there are only so many words. for the lost faces that beseech. shakey steps to a paradise of questionable origins. the stilted arithmetic of lovers. as we subtract ourselves from the moment.

hot ovens hungry for witches. candy houses thirsty for lost children. paradise found in torn paper. and lost in the folds.

negotiating with the machine. the futile mechanics of touch. pretending to know. how shallow the drowning is. the trembling depths. of waiting. for the world to end.

dull pencils. a fairy tale of choices. giving names to the dead.

the fundatmental progression. wolf to pig. witch to woodsman. chains speaking. prisons still deaf.

we are only angles. soft corners in the skin. drawing their maps. in blood and semen.

heaven close enough to grab. but too slippery to hold.

broken locks and heavy doors. scribble absent faces. the charm of death uses her. a blackjack of strangers. guilty with kings and aces. a dead flower on the barren floor. mindlessly giving names to things that have no faces.

identity comes in floods. waxing wolves with faces in their claws.

this temporary pain is exciting. as the infection spreads. swelling gods with transparent robes. dole out life in a mosaic of skin. broken shards drawing their images. in blind metaphors and heavy medicines.

she waits for the wind to inhale. in her broken cup. on the tedious mountain. she climbs. the coy flames pretending not to notice. swelling graves. and nearing edges.

she dresses as a poet. in cracked windows. she laughs as a stranger. in empty parallels. the hungry bridges insisting their path. as the memories revolt.

the fairy tale louder than it's ever been. witches and wolves confident in the raw. heavy meat and hollow bone. to chew. the arithemetic of god is in the waiting.

the language of humanity  is in the taking.

bent blades search for true. the anatomy of decision drowns us in more tendons than bones. the suffering sky. bleeds. singing blood from every hole. stalling monsters with useless sticks and stones.

the antipathy. counting backward. the puzzle of humanity. time and all its mischievous cousins. bet our passions against our weakness. and seldom lose.

blind epiphanies wear the wind. She sees in numbers. She breathes in atoms. Everything broken. or waiting to be fixed. a shit of gods. A piss of lovers. to prove the words have betrayed.

the softer darkness lets her in. an hysteria of conditions. the least of which is if. careless gods blame the mountain for their falls.

it's only time. scarce moments have their names for us.

the waiting consumes. whores, thieves and scientists.

the end surfaces in a wormhole. sharp against parting flesh. all futures promised to other destinies.

Cohesion lingers as a single tiny knot in infinite lengths of chaos. We are painfully small. It's not science at all. It's inappropriate flesh. Smothering violence. Sallow hunger. Brilliant madness. And the devastating worlds they construct within.