Philosophies in Bitten Nails

Pale victim comes in shutters cinched/ Cameras. Vaginas. What's the difference. The skin hanging from his wrists. While he reasons with the rabid dog. We're not new anymore.

Just textbooks. Empty smiles. And weightless breasts. Gritting the pavement between their teeth. In hard chews. On harder cement. The men. The hierarchy of skin reasoning with my sadness. Gone off. In search of the time machine. That mystical math that can make us whole again. If we could only find the past. Convince it to listen.

Sober as the hour demands. Like Stockholm. She insists. I am a prisoner. The clock on all fours. grubbing as foul as a dog. For the bone buried in the dirt. For the reason time doesn't respond. When I tell it to be patient.

I'll get there when I can. I'll find them. Drenched in menstrual fluid. Insisting they know what I want.

As dies every master to his dog. The whole. A backdoor. This time machine on the verge of success. As I punch in the numbers.

Certain I will forget.

The cough. As the dial turns back.

Hopelessly lost. In something so familiar.