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Thursday, November 4, 2010

the pocket in my hand

one day,
the rattle of
spider-legs, and
sickly paranoia,
will become soft
and flexible
like the sticks and stones
in our bellies.

that same day,
at the bottom of the stairs,
there will lay
a book of matches
and the shallow graves
of all our secrets
carved out of bad intentions,
and even worse apologies.

the ability to suit
having apparently
been cut delicately,
and paper thin.

so much
that even in all it's elegance,
with only a few words
and some spit,
our teeth lost all feeling,
and fell out.

all the vague elaborations,
carefully tucked away
in paper wasps' nests.

the rooms i all ways end up in
that no one ever finds

until everyone is dead.

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