Wednesday, February 08, 2006

PENCIL LEAD SUTURES: it’s been coming down. From some kind of heaven where the words meant something other than rejection. Where a lack of pulse means to just keep waiting, just keep waiting and the beats will come...the dust being huffed in is life giving, and the Molotov cocktails I’ve been making of my brain cells are just signal flares...damn near inviting. There was a point i missed, when stares and longing became threats and liability. when the coffins were closr than usual, wide open, corpses breathing in all the grains in my soul. i can't wait to be ugly again. replace every limb with glass still half sand. pencil the stiches in and see what you will make of them; accident - enjoyment - or a cry...


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