relentless
the kitchen clock ticks
and without grief it lays out the
meat of night
bloodless and small
delicate in its twisting features
its bone thin fingers on spine
soft touch like fire

she is doubled up by
the toilet in a puddle of tears
and the sadness you feel is so complete
and completely yours alone
for she has gone beyond caring about inconsequential
thing like appearance
her lips cold
roll over broken words
puncture the hard surface
of her blatant thoughts
coarse and black with grease
a grave of concept
a concept of graves
interchangeably pattern

hours spent here
days and then you realize
its a lifetime
in the space between broken window
leaking frigid air
and the burning heat of her bed
the darkness that never lets
that is never abated by thouse who pass
thouse who tread with such care
hoping never to be seen benith the archway
benith flickering light
of the ***** trail

she laments
to no avail
pauses in her song to stare at you openly
without a word
she resumes the dance
of tale and blade
of knife and tongue
till they are one and the same
till her voice is the thing cutting into you
until her voice is consuming you
and its dark juice is feeding on you
imperfections in her vision

(part two)

it is now him
the pornographic box of her mind
is full of her noise
her voice distorted into his
her thoughts melt into his
until she is him
and she no longer feels lost
she feels hot sticky and wet
she feels like fresh paint drying
slow wicked and tense
like a serpent coiled for a strike
at his heart
the exact center of his beating heart
she will see it cease
she will be a ******
she will be an ****** of imperfections

his lazy eye
wanders over her wet form
clawing at bits of cloth
gnawing at the fundamentals of her flesh
consume the parking lot of her brow
where her doubts show
in neatly lined rows
devour the candy samples of her lips
rose colored and tasting like rivers of cherry
where her words fall from
like molten razors

his ***** fingers
caress her clean thin wrist
bracelet golden
with painted jewels pink and cheerful
paint slopped outside the lines
he inspects its every inch
marveling that she could have imperfection
his lazy mind wanders all over her
and his greasy thoughts leaves trails of
butter smooth filth
and insects eating ravenously of the
stench and disease

this is no fantasy
its a disrobed natural kernel of truth
up from dark city street