fermentation permeates thumbs its holes perforates the surface in her turning state
+++
her aged clammy skin is sacky suit and patched with the marring of toxin exhaust her worn molt gowning clothes it all in
her belfry ? there is no sage here place held ; there is a broken variation of some childish penitentiary
though her matter is paddy and pollute her being is parched she is expulsion in progress
setting : positioned opposing the other physically in form of a cold interview we are in a breakfast café
i will not reach for her hand though she'd like the comfort with no asylum given what are her words to be ?
i wait (i cannot manage a kindness her mangy carriage promotes nausea) i wait (i'll not reach for her her actions in our family wicked life she provokes no trust or warmth) i wait (i'll not be the first to speak)
if there is anything left to say talk now ? i feel a little quickening what are your words, old heck ?
her hands fit about like moth she ignites a cigarette the life fights out of her right then
no spores only resin she passes in front of me
she said not a word
i awkwardly pay the bill with quaking hands and leave her there
i am homeless, without a mother -scattered- she is ultimately homeless now