Wet Murals On Windows Once Shaded

The broadcast of hopelessness is universal. Impotent. Incredulous demigods in the spoils of nakedness. Happiness is seeing them struggle when you're gone. Candy canes sucked sharp and dangerous. Sweet daggers carved with a kiss.

Briefs cinemas of skin choking in and out of focus. The actors in our pants shivering with the dialogue missed. Subtitles on their trousers failing to communicate. A story. A simple prick of character. A beginning. A closeup of her face like a needle out of heroin. Their touch perfectly poisoned apples. Rotting.

The little plays we create each night. Togehter. And alone. The stages caoxed from old spice and used condoms. A habit. A ritual. A friend. A gift.

Foul with confessions of weakness.

Spoiled by want.

Drawing first in pencil. And then in ink. Drawing in squints and guesses. As blind as life demands. As acurate as life isnsists. Each person a new drug. A new hole to make in veins salready perforated with lovers.