Pretty Pictures

Swinging from memory's loose trapeze. With a sundial grin and a fist full of yellow light. I hear the ambulance coming from miles away. I hear it coming and coming and coming, but never see it arrive.

The staple in the chamber hungry for the paper. The bomb in my wrist. Endlessly calculating the empty in my chest. Life offers an abundance of charming poisons, but none so enchanting as sadness.

Squealing brakes in her lips. As the words trickle over into valiant wishes. Shifting gears in her grin to accommodate the roads beneath. The Marxism of love too much for the capitalist in her head. The democracy of sex more than her socialist heart could overlook. Fragile campaigns of emotion no match for the politics of beauty.

Pretty pictures. Empty images.