Wake the Ghosts

seldom serpents manifest. a thunder of dark. tepid fangs scorn the lips. blood like flower petals. blossoms from open flesh. waiting. travelling through the pause. in stabs of conceit. backwards through time. on soft crutches and hard choices.

the hollow chamber of her grasp. the dense apparatus between her legs. the vulgar portals of all things human. swift concessions sell the song. of wet panties and soiled dresses. counting out loud. piercing each number with a grin. worn. discarded. confident monsters lurking under her bed.

so much over. taut labors curdle the charade. giants stride the marathon and tumble. next to nothing. time undresses. intent on being seduced. but all my roses are rotted. all my ironies in use.

maybe sunday was all she could threaten. as the ghosts began to stir. bone on bone. a pantomime of skin. more color than condition. sweating laboorers lost in a machine without a skeleton.