Ladder of Skin

Ample aliens debate the touch of dead men. Summer. In slivers of skin falling from broken fingers. The truce. In coughs of sober. Liars and lovers. Twins of different ages. Dying together.

The crayon draws. Without direction from dying gods and frail men. In lying neckties. Tuxedos of flesh. As black and white as I expect of lust. And love. Or anything that dares to come between them.

The sheets absolve our absence. Nothing to grieve. Tin men without brains. Yellow brick roads to chase. Good witches. Spells still the same. Wizards. Curtains at the back of my head not trying to hide anymore. The console. So many buttons to press. To make this world happen. Too many gods to name to prove it was real. Or even should have been. Written in ink. Needles tease the skin. Plunge the colors closer to the veins. As if they belonged to us. Or ever noticed how near.

Stemless flower petals mock the perfume. Of empty vagina's looking to vomit again. Temptations. Bits of cocaine in Mandee dresses. Sleeping so loud. The map in her crotch. leading him there.

The worthless treasure some women call love.

I want to fall again

. Convince all these pieces they are wrong.