Descendants of McCarthy

Alone is the perfect playground. Chase the dimensions that lurk in the bowels of salvation. Yield to the hours that proliferate self-same antagonists. Reiterating the path my whims have taken. To convince the slave that he is a free man.

Take her in doses. She is a delicate medicine. A woman of any sort. Bathsheba's with patterned asses. Trussed thighs. Invite only villains into their warm graves. Wake the priest. Tell him. She has died again. And will die. A thousand times before this Earth loses its grip.

Blessed are symptoms such as this. That I can't see. Because the world is absent. That I can't sleep. Because the hours are always close. Begging manipulation. Making gods from small men. With eager uterus's.

Discarded articles of skin. The attic calls. In whispers of chains. Condemned to a future where we do not exist. Ghosts. Observing. The consequence. Of how we've lived.

Just a woman. Only a man. Primitive directives present their evidence. I wore her. As tight as any man could have. The blood still warm in the pelt as I snuck my limbs inside the skin. It was a drug. Passive chemical euphoria. It was religion. It was science. Vultures on the horizon. Confident with the sickness.

Little lies creating bigger ones. And home still so many machine away.