Pretty Little Things

The undetermined. Sad faces on the wall. Soldiers on the playground. With laughing guns. Fiddle with the settings. On dying triggers. Tired machines. That have waited too long for us to turn them off.

The woman. With hear eyes in a slipknot. Years like rope. Sneaking through the loop. She remembers the future, but it doesn't remember her. When she comes back she'll say its close. But it'll already have happened.

The stray. Its eyes bruising the window glass. The hunger stomps forward. With all the lead it can carry. Long numbers. Arranged. Like butterflies about to sneeze. Longer division. To perpetuate this wonderful sickness.

Hours. Years. Toiling on the epilogue. The sober like infants learning to walk. I let them fall. The gods like emperors trying on their new robes. I let them think. That we are all naked.

The witch at her wardrobe. Trying on her pointed hats. Choosing her warts.

The constant is still flesh. The numbers are smudges on the dashboard of this arrogant farce.

The result is still undetermined. The math is certain. The skin is still deciding. When we are.