Ravens

The black bird in the bit stream flies closely to the conversations I always have, but never finish. Penises as spoiled tourniquets for bleeding vaginae on the verge of realizing the void is everything.

Everything is nothing. Nothing is the hour I was born in and the eternity in which I've lived. Everything. And nothing. Pale twins finishing each other's sentences in gobs of phlegm and broken condoms.

I could be the smoke. The source of the cancer that pours the tumors like rock candy into your blood. The damsel in tarnished heels counting the beats in her head as she dances. Pretending she knows the songs. Or even the reason that is exists.

Tame shotguns killing the dead in a spray of indifference. Triggers searching for a finger to liken that death to something real.

The blackbird on the telephone wire teasing the lightning.