The Privileges of Lost

the sour mercies time inflicts. the subtle virus of want. its mute screams constant. vague and absurd. a delicious starvation. awash in dramatic balconies and impotent fictions.

stolen honey. worn by the proxy. eager as we are. to be spent. anything to reinforce the structure.the shallow walls in the shadow of  the deep ceiling. paper negotiating the rain.  the cold in doses. the disantce like icicles.

it's years. it's minutes. they are the same. hollow rooftops from which we look down. a suicide of expectations.

the hour bursts open. a wolf with big eyes. a willing victim. every story is lived in flesh, but told in skeletons.

the wardrobe is casual. though the there are other rules. used in priority of creases. the distance is measured in confessions. and claw marks in the dirt.

the bones flaunt their dance. the flesh boasts its poetry. all the unspoiled rigors of desire in fractions of utopia.

the map doesn't listen. the route is obstinate. clever pinnochios undoing their strings.

there we are. all needles and threads. looking for seams in all the wrong places.

the colors. like symptoms of the disease. the moments like distant radio stations.

still she  struggles with the knot. skeptical of what it releases.