Ornamental Devices

Bare walls. Sticks in the soil dreaming of roofs. Empty chairs in the hall. Remembering the press of broken bodies. Caught fish. Flailing for breath in this suffocating air. The clown with his face falling off. Frantically searching for more white. That huge wig weighing down his head. As he tries to look at her.

The after is the best place to feast. Dead things everywhere. Eyes toiling in the grim. Flesh is want to pursue. The stab of placebos smothered in this sickness. I never wanted to be saved.

This device called love fails us again. Excited molecules incite their riots below our skin. But touch is still a communist. And we still hate each other.

Her pajamas. Like locks on her legs. Determined to make it a race. Between time the dying machines.

His and hers. She allowed. Quietly she danced. The keyhole in her back tightening.