Black Canaries

This awful bed squeals with loose skin. Spent dolls emerge from touch's dour vending machine. Empty and lacking the math to find the future. Just claws. Flaking on the brick. Hidden doors. Seldom emerging.

Weakness. A frail catapult. Hurling its boulders. At walls that don't exist. The puppet speaks. In fractions of skin. I remember nothing and everything.

Gods with their erect penises ready to penetrate the smallest hole. Time is a vaccine. Not a cure. The monkey warned. You'll wake up. Between those moist sheets. And assume it's over.

But no matter when it happens you'll always be wrong.