Heed the Madmen

The skeleton in its pretty clothes. Planting its garden with fingers made of bone. Death is a joke. Religion is the punchline. No one is alone. Everyone is. The ghost in her enchanting gown. Tears it on the nail sticking out. Damn those doorways. That they tend to put in between then and now.

Working her windows. With steel wool in hand. Clean is relative. Those dolls with their perky plastic breasts and tiny rubber feet. There is only so much I can chew on.

Some people are dirt. Others are stains. The choice is theirs.

Waking up in the diner. French toast at three am is something to be cherished. When all your doll's are footless. And your ghosts won't listen to reason. The red light. Limping loudly in her head. Pressing the button on that device changes nothing. Different snakes. Same venom.

Numbers. Like stainless steel parting skin. To change all the world around her. If only for an instant. It's still worth it.

Where she was. Arrogant equations. Steeped in cloying men. Dead wood. No kindling. Plus. Minus. A sequence. The illusion of touch. Fooling us. With empty rages.

I just want somewhere to go. Somewhere that isn't here. And won't ever know. Where I've been.

Nowhere. Every place. When in whispers. How in quiet miscarriages. Time measured in the prick of needles. That frail vaccine called love rarely works on the dead.

Ultimately.

This disease is all that's saving her.