Thursday, September 3, 2009


Sleep is a desert where little is left alive, all this desiccated scenery stretched beneath such star strewn dreams. Dry hands work the riddles from the apparatus, cracked skin aching with the working of the joints. The enigma spits its puzzles, pressed with ruined digits, tracked with swirls and pads. Wake in terror to a world pressed free of feeling, the tenor of despair just window dressing to the blank slate now left in brittle shards. The city is emptied, the room full of the heat of misplaced energies, thoughts with no rest in sight.

It is much too early for it to be this late. Scant hours until dawn works its racket, cat eviscerated moths on the blurred shambles of the porch, looking every bit like the ends all those secret angels deserve. It seems too soon for a bloated moon this bright shedding second hand sun light, putting Orion on his ear. The night sky isn't bad, considering how the town below glows in its sleep. It seems to pause, as if there was something to say at last.

The coiled poison unwinds behind numb eyes, spilling in bitter resonance into a vapor of spent thoughts and things. Exhaust billowing from a slight parting of lips, sickness bleeding out oily pores. It is gentle and relentless and knows no mercy. Suffering isn't inevitable if there is a place for pain to roost. Something to separate out all the colors, to dwell on the fauna and the chemistry as divisions become urgent. Something to cope with so much casual sand, such patient spines. All the roads that reach out to find you, only to leave you so far behind.

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