Preparing the Nil

soft sores on the lips of the clock. flaunt their pus. a simple infection of touch. slow to heal. the trembling steps whisper. gentle songs. of gnarled fangs and beaten predators. the end is quiet. and abrupt. for everyone. each of us.

pale cinderellas negotiating with their princes. imagining words are enough.

the long rope. empty at the end. unravels toward the sun. ready to reveal the black. in silent fits. small and large. as everything is  from one moment to the next.

lingering choices. the throbbing wrist. the deafening colors. tomorrow shouts. yesterday only whispers.the simple sin of silence draws its picture in the corpses.

short stories. long faces. alone finds her confessions. bleak as ever. bold as blood. the cuts not healing. the blade still eager.


the quiet surrender. rising. like so many colors. fading. her dismal catalyst. her discarded dress. the poetry of nothings. flesh sick with a fever of when.