January 28, 2004

Plastic thoughts, floating like dead fetuses in jars of formaldehyde. No shape or form to them, a dead developmental stage.
sit down for tea, let us pore over the infinite programs of executions that you so carfully planned. Thank you for including every detail.
Greasy hair, calloused hands. You’re never going to wake up, so turn off the alarm and just keep sleeping.

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January 17, 2004

Splashed into an oblivion of post mordem.
Stiffness, she can’t bend. Her hands lock around the throat of that one lover and squeeze.
It was only a hug of love, i promise.
She picked up her diet pills, they were eighty nine dollars a bottle, and swallowed three whole.
If she were thinner, she wouldn’t have to hug people anymore.

January 6, 2004

Pick at the strings, spindle through the noises.
She wires up the amps, and the tables start to turn.
Her hands are raw from strumming, but her voice is the smoky
whisper of naked models, tanning on a beach in the evening.

The room is two hundred and climbing. Red and black brick walls form enclosures, the rebellious sheep pen.
Stage up the earrings. There are more holes than humans.
She leans against the fly rack and watches as the weights shift and tumble like clockwork.

When do they fall?

January 4, 2004

It was a point and click.
No jam, no loading.
Just the sound of a mutual death.
Lips tinted red, like cherries, brush the words from your mouth.
Lip-stick stained glasses, littered tables, a rumpled bed.
That was sex without the love.
That was sex with the violence.
A soft cello storms into her dreams and she wakes from the mare and lights the candlewicks.
A figure stood at the doorway and smoke lit his lips afire as he spoke.

January 1, 2004

Closed.
A shining brightness, the lights, a string of casualties.
broken bottles and the dying light of fireworks.
Blinding scars, seared behind the eyelid.
A simple thing, really.