Up the Transom

The otherwise of empty steps. Calm predictions on worn shoes. I was walking. So loudly. Until silent came in vogue. The calm conspirators of frivolous demons as the pavement chirps with so much momentum.

The standard. Absolute strangers plot the maze that is my skin. Piling up walls. Diminishing the solution. The molecules. As ambivalent as ever. Takers. In pale restitution. Rebuild. The cracked faces of dolls we've dropped.

Limbless and naked in the arms of their savors. Their Satans. Their drunk gods with white gloves on.

The man. His soft beard teasing the hairs on her vagina. The premise. Skin the comedy. The rest a drama. Sex is Shakespeare. It doesn't rhyme at all, but looking back you'd swear that it did.

Everything wants a name. The dead are no exception.