Friday, July 23, 2010


Searching for an ever-changing lust
in a sickly,

Hope is left on the brighter side of the door
and the desire
for meaning beyond
was abandoned long ago;
you're looking for a glimmer of heavenly breath;
for a cool breeze on the back of a sweaty spine,
for salvation-
in a den of dripping honey, but
there is no choice now
there is no trickling light to follow to the surface
and no greater meaning will be revealed
only regret,
and detachment

don't think of the glimmer that might be
don't think of gentile wind
and smiles over checkered picnic cloth

take both feet off the floor
crawl deep into the moldy, musty sheets
and let the devils dripping tongue
lap you into the maw.