7 January 2006

Lens and Lemming, a Ticket and Poirot

I know we all, we all got our faults
We get locked in our vaults and we stay
But when you’re gone all the colors fade

A porrage breakfast on china-shop morning, the freezing fog gone tizzling on in the sealing throats of milky-faced smiles, beads on bending strings warping to the weight of a Monday afternoon chafing the horizon. It's a warm mealy-mouthed mush, much too much tangibility surrounding the pagan tongue, a bluish hue to the window pattern, a silk board woven over with dewdrop pearling and gray gnawing age. Let's partition the hortatory and blind the woman shivering on the black ice, a snake wiring her arteries, a venom parting her legs, shes uncontrolled and helpless, a kind of serial vindication from system and systematisation, she checks. First the sign, then the street, then the rabid froth she keels over in her stomach, the sign, the street, the blush on her cheeks. Red. Too red from the corner of her eye, it was a bad trip, a sweating, stained, and hollow seed worming around in the tympanic bulla just shaving its way to smothering her brain. All slack-jawed and comatose, stammering in the blistered-crystalline mire, swollen tiptoes sunk in the idea, a mobile movement, a statutory revolution, shame-faced and lovely, drunk and dressed with heel in the bed, file on every face, a lie in every wandering-sudden breath.
Karma's a bitch they say, a flaunting totem of a woman, amazonian maybe with a hint of alligator tears, flipping switches the other way, rumbling blind-eyed for the deedless. We're two-seated and hell-bound, a cab door locked from the inside, and her red eye sighs like an old leather lamb in a diary page. -Too red she says, but it's not its war: the light slid out on stippled rasp of former non-existence, neither light nor dark, from nothing and everything to the contrasted fields. It's a watery grave in the line in between, stuck and sucked in on the middle ground riding the hip of being, slick and thick with the glaborous pit giving in for a thrust. The lead lines every cell weighing in on the living expense, its a gravity untouched, an atrocity unknown, overlooking the background that your love played out on.

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