Thursday, April 2, 2009


indoors,i'm paling bonfires and verbing the nouns and
death is a metaphor.the room sighs with the afternoon
grief,the morning grief, the early summer grief saddling
nightfall. the grains in your coffeejar are a thousand
condensed nightmares imitating mine.the room sighs as

love is just a photographs,the eyes grow closer ,
but lighter with the loss of regard.your hands probing through
my ribs find filthy similes eating at a faint throb.the throb,
the paling bonfire, the room with no doormats, no sky,
just blood and disease- affect lunging into attempts to
hide.inside,warming up for spite, expecting
crisis in the hub,i lay out trump defenses- failing, failing,


SOMETHING after ages, and this bloody awful. i wanna shoot me.
butdoods. ive been outa touch for ages. no no shootmeanyway.


JD said...

Ah well, you don't leave much room to comment now, do you.

Tell me shippy, am i SUPPOSED to look at the whole thing as a giant metaphor for something? Cuz I've been trying, but in vain :(

Debs said...



The End.

C R D said...

it seemed soo dark and i loved it..

but i dunno why...period.