Rubber Gloves

Souvenirs in skin. The foul of sex barfing its art upon us. Like paint spilled. Hated. In sketches we can't resist coloring in.

The dogma. The composition. Of words in the birth pain. The threat of god a pawn to the addiction. The satire of salvation rolling over. Wagging its tail as we rub its belly. The moment in giant footprints marks the course. Indifference the measure. Of recovery. Of happiness. And the arc of the bridges that unite them. Should there we such a place Where every moment is composed of chewing gum. Bathed in saliva. Capturing every tooth mark. Each movement of the tongue. Tossing about inside our mouths. IN happy graveyards where we still find our answers in the dead.

A tremor in my brain is reason enough to decide. I'm still lonely, A man in my bed reason enough to regret ever having been a woman.