she said the quiet had become too loud. all broken pencils and cracked chalkboards. in the relentless composite of want.
these simple monsters flaunt their math. in stutters and coughs. flesh as blind as the rest of these bodies are. now that the world is ending. as it always does. dead leaves. and brown grass. the vast fields where we disappear. the endless cooridors that fizzle and simmer. pretending that we ever were.
pin pricks in a heavy veil. the grim algebra of touch. the lonely nucleus of when. in a feverish array of broken atoms. the science of surrender is well documented.
the angles of a woman. soft and sharp. and so addictive.
the cut. the wound's precision. the sharp claws of paradise. almost gone.
the heavy blunt of cracked dolls. their frozen fists clutching absent gods. the frantic stabs of potential lovers. a sharp mosaic of flesh. grouted in blood.
simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.
clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.
her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.
the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.
the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.
that is our strength and our burden.
the fervent axiom. shudders and roars. pale tempests with their hungry knots. the stage confesses. to knowing. every character. all the plots. a vacant sort of immunity. where life is discarded. and these empty skins wager against gravity.
the maps breathe. life is merely a series of circumstances. reluctantly evolving to accomodate the growing hunger within.
everything is time. that omnipotent and poisonous god. all our touches are minutes. all our words are seconds. and for so long we wait. expecting they will be counted.
even if it's only at the end.
the oblique angles. this suicide of when. becomes her. the furture erupts in small ripples. until oceans separate them.
bend the wind. angles stark with choice. beat the air. with trembling whispers. time travels us. in jokers and discards. the stubborn wagers of flesh. keeping count. the weight of one petal heavier somehow than the entire flower. the strangle of the path. in ribbons easily undeone.
the disease stutters. more helpless than the victim. quiet alarms.gift wrapped in pillows of blood and piss.
simple edges convince the scars. absent blood and stiff with husteria. her hollow dress teases the wind. haunted by the ghost of a pesron she once was.
the machine churns. noisy and ignorant. measuring the void in dirty panties. life is paper. blood our only ink. as we beg for the stories to remember us.
the hungry quake. the nervous surrender. broken faces on the quivering distance. we travel so far to find the beginning. only to be taken by the end.
soft hammers pound the hard nails. the lens trembles. sick with sight. the scale wretches. spoiled by gravity. we continue counting. all through the nightmares and the waking up. determined ghosts. still in the clothes they've lost.
shy predators press their fangs to the glass. the ceiling low and transparent. but not without its locks.
the hours choke on the geometry of flesh. a dissonant sybiosis. shapes and colors. maps and distance. a fever of when. like stones against the broken glass. no resistance. just empty spectacle.
the weather turns. the paper gives. creases and valleys. the stilted science of surrender.
her purchase only a narrow shaft of moonlight. her choices more slender still.
the vex of time truant of the flesh. we tumble. arrogant in our freedom. ignoring gravity's chains.
vacant cellars boast their paper dolls and fraying ghosts. The empty arithmetic of all the strangers she used to know.
maybe i'm yellow and the blue is just imagined. he has his super
heroes and i'm okay with what remains of fading fairy tales. perhaps i
pressed too deeply on the fold. and the paper had no choice but to
remember. the flame that lures the insects to their suicide.
the
simple art of choosing. if it hurts enough. whether the shame still
fits. stiff corspes and pliant worshippers of these tangled puppets.
maybe the stage is choice enough. the corrosive wagers of solitude. raising their voice. for the dead to hear.
lost breadcrumbs.and candy houses. boast the shadows. the empty syringe. the folding muscles. the surrendering skin.
a
simple lever. fritcion easily solves her. a decimal place. the math of
moments. cradles the hours in its fists. the punch. the frivolous guile
of absent gods. burdens us all.
this vacant freedom whispers treason.
you'll see me there, but it's someone else. a goblin imitating the mirror. a stranger trying on my skin. ignoring the wrinkles. excited by the darkness. searching for alone in a hurricane of faces. desperately remembering the quiet edge as the loud one approaches.
you'll see the tar. the dense portal of silence that sits between us. i've been searching for the map. all my life. still haven't found it. voices like blank paper. taunting me to read what was never there. i try to remember the world i knew before. the inside. all jelly and vinegar. thick and sharp stabs to the senses. and their virulent amnesia.
we'll trace the lines separately. wondering how they could ever meet. people. distant thunder. pouring rain. a preposterous flood for me to drown in. the distant echo of the margins. the hollow poetry of my disease. scratching on the glass. digging in the fire. content to burn.
you'll meet the broken doll and wonder how she walks. you'll talk to the empty chair and marvel at the shadow it casts.
simple stitches threading through the eye of time. hollow numbers. and their servant skin. choosing each madness with open fists. the trail softens. the blood dries. this body is the coffin. time is the grave.
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.