Sad gifts are given. Wings pulled off of helpless insects. They are dropped, but don't break. Skeletons on the outside. Skin underneath the crust. Burnt apple pies still leave me with the craving.
The people I know. Or thought I did. Reruns. Old cliffhangers forgotten. Corks ripped from curing hearts. Reality TV. Shitting faces caught on tape. Wiping asses chasing toilet paper dreams.
Sad gifts. Some not given at all. Champagne waiting to burst. The wires pretending to they can contain all that rage. Children subtitling their daydreams. Assuming the world to be as pliable as them. Silly girls with pink underwear making a trail of menses for random men.
Organizing the hunt in stitches of wedding dresses. And the names of children they haven't had yet. Strangling the semen in preemptive abortions. Following the juice of the apple as it drips.
The laxative of mutual skin shitting out everything inside.
Tuesday
12/18/2007 01:01:00 AM
"The laxative of mutual skin shitting out everything inside."
Powerful, powerful imagery. I felt like I was reading this through my stomach.
Your talent leaves me in awe.
as does yours me.
but for me it's not so much talent as it's a magical combination of beer and regret.
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