trixfork

the words have a grit of their own like small pebbles in the oil of sleazy conversation, oh there is a slip between us oh there is a delicate rasp where i sharpen my favorite teeth. a comma is a weapon, punctuation with tongue. all my fantastic power can only focus on a moment where all else is unnecessary and the live human is complete and the animal push is proof and something sings within me flinging tears to my eyes in the empty echo here i find loneliness a cop-out; i am hardly incapable and time will pass in time.

the groggy weight of unfulfilled promises i am just a mule retiring into my grey glazed eyes in moments like this where i must reconstruct the walls of denial a stark stone tomb in which to bury truth these piercing mornings it is like the bead of poison that quivers hesitant at the sharp lip the hollow tube of the syringe it is not the dull throb of death but the knowledge that death nips at your heels. i raise the sun i raise my glass again and find the bright orb trapped in thick glass like an insect in amber, i have stopped it i have stopped the sun and again i raise the sun and i lower my glass until it breaks washe