January 21, 2005 - 3:44 p.m.
the word: order, suspiciously like hors d'oeuvres, is twisting,
ripe and orange,
the mess on the floor is never ending
because breathing and pulses
result in shed skin cells-
cranky, is not even the half of it,
and strange is only so because
not enough is known.
the bruise on bones, eggplant, aubergine, and the colour of rot.
swollen and raised, perfectly formed
like these thoughts aren't, but decaying
like the staleness that is always close on the heels of taste
the inevitable after,
towards hope
eyes lift, fingers hit
over and over
colliding with expectations
the colour purple is hard to see unless the skin is pale, and not in the literary sense, because
the mind registers white in the presence of all colour
and all i want is absence, except in the literal sense.
yellow creeps in.
curled around my fingers-
thought falls down dumb
like words wasted
and you just don't get it.
