The Direction of the Wind

Pinwheels. On their last threads. As the wind is escalating. Seeds in their graves. Tunneling through the soil. It's only fiction. In that literal sense. Of how this skin fails to compensate. For lies we try to live.

The winter is ending she warned. As I humbled in my coat. It's warm again. Time for stubborn dolls to admit. That they aren't always correct. In their assumptions. That that world is linear. Or so obvious. As not to notice. When. A clown is undressed.

Without the makeup. They're just sad little soldiers with malfunctioning guns. Take away their circus and they seem so fragile. The soft clay of lazy artists. Spilling paint in the wounds.

Pinwheels. Mad atoms and callous neutrons. Selling their math. Like ten dollar prostitutes. Pinwheels. The glory of skin. A cheap souvenir in the service of flesh.