Monday, December 14, 2009


It's not cold at all. It's just hot showers in her underwear. As she teases the sun. With her long fingers. Frail with choices. Made for her. By bigger men.

It's not salvation. This night. Or any other. Blind infants spoiling in their mothers' tits. The red and the green teardrops of electricity. Stabbing the dark. In petulant dreams. Of fools and children unable to sleep.

There is no war in this heart. No soldiers in this skin. Just beggars and opportunists. Selling their tinsel to naked trees.

I've found him. So many times. But He was always a disappointment.

I've been saved by better men.

and destroyed by the same.


  1. great prose poem... but sad and vexing as well...

    i'm trying to get my head around the title... i can't see how it fits...

    will think more on this and visit again

  2. back again... and thinking some more...

    perhaps it's that a rose is just as sweet... that thorns are just as sharp... that in each is the potential for so much good and so much bad... that the deeper that sorrow has carved into the soul the more joy it can contain...

    perhaps not

  3. two things sound the same, but are completely different.