September 26, 2005

slipping on lies like broken glass and melting ice.
slenderizing thoughts and simplifying the impossible,
a triple threat of metaphorical homicide.
Her brain carried a knife, and there was a gun under the bed.
simple, scary, shadowed, sheltered.
tipping the toppling towers, tumbling the trees,
gasping for air, allowing annonomous antiquities.
traipsing through, your walking whispers destroy all waking hours.

It was nothing when you sat on the porch and hummed your tune.

Now it’s all shattered glass and broken elbows.
Bending curves.
(she’s thinking about that edge)
snapping the slapping branches, reaching higher up
(so thin)
paper-delicate, and opaquely skinned, a fish out of water on this humid dry land
(the end isn’t far)
tripping through and talking talentlessly,
three forms of favourtismns fountain flawlessly,
forming formidible frames, infrastructures to a terrible mind.

Exquisite, they called it.
A simple slash and all is said and done.
This is a morgue.
And this is the body.

It
Takes
Hate.

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