The Anecdote of Skin

Hours. On the mark that was his sleep. Bald spider webs. Begging the fly. Warm. The broomstick up her ass. Educating foul pussies in the art of not listening. The camera. Lidless eye focused on the lonely man. Pity for him. But none for the lonely woman.

Bad stories everyone wants to read. Because alone is the new drug. It's all full. The well. The pennies. The wishes ignored. Stories told. Next to glasses of wine. Ropes hung too close to the dead man.

But how. How was I to ever save him?

That agitated porcupine. So much venom in his quills.

I waited for the chance to touch him.

Am still waiting. For those poisons to subside.

Moments. Or maybe years. Parable of skin. Telling their stories.