Wednesday, September 20, 2006

paint pen exclamations

What is this here?

And they sucked in his skin

like it was cotton.

A bellyful of brightness where

we can set off

tiny metal fires.

I love that cave of death,

with machinations of spindly weeds

and sweet arrogance you can press into

and smell deep.

An endless goblin fascination,

look at what you appear to be.

Hear the shrieking slaughter of

lint machines, churning

on and on and

into groggy dawn from night.

Know the perfect face, and how

we traipse through the day

like it was nothing, with

fingers like the tentacles

of an inane bubble sea.

The small spaces in us

breathe heavier,

lumps in the throats of

transparent bedrooms, watch him

cock his head to clear the sweat

from between us.

What is good taste if not

an artful evasion for the sick of self.


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