Internal Grammar

How long. The serpent's teeth are. In mediocre parables. The burden of skin. Relaxing at crotch level. The stalwart prince. Bending over to kiss. Dead things more terminal than prophet. I woke up the dead eye, but it was blind by then.

I knew the hours would not listen, but he insisted that we try. Turning over the hourglass again.

The calendar evaporating. As we exchanged vacant skins. Time is just a tyrant. A foolish dictator of penises and tits.

The disease comes in doses. The flesh ambiguously resolved to other locations. The universe shits. And we exist again. In another mutation.

The artist with her easel. The poet with his ink. The dead child with her chin in her her hands.

No toys left.