Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Rot (or Wrought)

Bowing over flowers like bad news,

an empty coat prays for spring by

brushing against a blue, cashmere cardigan.

Passion-soaked walls listen for twilight to settle

like dust on a bonnet, eagerly waiting for the passage of time.

Death lives here and invites Sadness to step inside

with its bloody teeth.

Sensation is foreign after being numb so long

the deafening silence is a shrieking tea kettle

folding in on itself.

Numbness is a comforting quicksand gagging on velvet.

Shame is a battery-operated timer with

the perpetual motion of an unsteady gyroscope

drowning in emptiness like bubble wrap pushing in.


The atheist, in love with futility, meditates

over sweet bile-smelling incense.

Acidic soil makes hydrangeas blue

like the cloying promise of a fad diet.

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