Keeping Time With Cunts

There is no sun anymore. The grey prevails. Drunken Romeo. With his fingers in his lover's tragic cunt. The sun doesn't shine at all. In this dinghy corner of the world. As I scratch my pictures into the falling dominoes.

Chalk dust in my teeth. And chewed dolls. Flaunt their gory feet. For the switch. On this devilish machine. That lives inside us all. Numbers carefully arranged. Debts too sore to sleep.

Going back. In blatant trembles. Skin vanished from heavy thumbs. On looming blackouts. Power is often given. Seldom taken. The choice. The monster. Louder with every decision.

The future comes though she begs it not. The past expects her redolent song. Been there. Done that. Semen on the headboard. Muted scars in the wood. Telling their stories to the glass.

The quantum. The mechanics. Of flattened skin. Failing checkerboards for dying kings. And the queen. The game never notices her until she's gone.

Fluctuations. That's what he said. As he loosened his tie. Records skipping. On the deep trenches in our skin. All our gods. Not understanding. How close we are. To reaching them.

It's just a button on her cunt that I occasionally press. Like everything we do, It wants to mean more than it does.