The Cockroach on the Lamp Shade

No one was listening. No one could hear. As she screamed. About thoughtless men. More abortion than sex. The atom on its side. A treasure in its hip. As it shudders to the god awful songs we use to make it dance. Just a small doorway inside a larger one. To find her at her keyboard. Obsessed with the broken switch. On those practical poisons. All devices of the skin. That would expand so abrupt. Taking her to the safety of the center of the explosion.

The prominent. Rabid with. The bowels called darkness. Polish the key on sharp stones. Found is. The dagger in the sand. Dig. Keep digging. Let the ocean match her glance. As she breaks the ladder into pieces. Knowing she'll never be that high again.

Just the surgeon with fingers made of glass. Determined to know the origin of her reflection. Her organs all askew. Dimensions. Like finger paints. Rub the heavy paper. Snare the wolf. Take his claws. Cut the lips of god.

Scream at him. The abyss is obvious. The lever is stuck. The world is split down its side. Dead as I remember it.

I sleep on the button. Afraid to push it. I weep on the numbers. Looking for mercy. In the futile paradoxes that is her.

I fall asleep on the trigger. And wake up. To small gods trying to stop our ugly machines.

Small gods are that I've left. Ever since that cockraoch first darkened the lamp shade. The bulb in its calm collapse. Pale men at her back door. Collecting the atomsin small slices.

The wolf in grandma's pantyhose. His big eyes like daggers. Spilling the contents of my picinic basket.