The Love Lives of Puppets

Making the bed. Molar by molar. Chewing on then. With dulling teeth. That old prescription of wisdom and foolishness turning sorrow into epiphanies. He can't tell it, but I'm incurable. The drug that drugs take. He can't see it. No one can. Except that stranger in my head that speaks in Faulkner titles and Shakespeare tongues.

I'm a television. An image of senses that sight cannot convey. Scent. Fetid sprinkles of orgasm in the cup of cool underwear. Touch. The glycerin of warm skin poisoning the air. In thick strokes of forgetfulness. Giving away. Giving in. Giving up.

On the sun. On the tide. Everything that tries to change the world and always fails.

Born toothless. Doomed to die the same way. Soft felt cheeks tense too hard to kiss and the stitches on their lips come undone. Leaving these puppets without words.