She walks in from the outside scene, the doorway creaks - pregnant with humidity - sold to the stronger hand that wrestles against me. Teeth together locked by the shimmer of steel, draped in a dimpled peel. A sour smile keenly creeps as she whispers: 'I'm going to eat you starting with your feet.'
Each knuckle is a story scaring me to sleep. In a rigid stance buckled up to the allegory. Starting at the cheek, brass rings storm the temples of marrow. Stoic to the altar's light, brushed by the fabric of your arrows.
As she turns back to her tools, I weigh my desertion, but like the worst kind of merchant, I won't leave without urging. Finding the ground in a rush to meet me - relinquished the perplexed martyr: 'In this day what's harder, the struggle or the concrete?'
Darling do you feel the weight of the world in your words? You've heard the power fabricated from my right band, but look how sad these shoulders get, driving boulders to the playwright's plan. Constantly adapt to the aesthetic, removed from meat, but it's still about your parents. Skin stretched, fists clenched, crushing clocks so the elders won't die of sadness as much of old age.
released May 31, 2013
all rights reserved